Three Poems: We Look at You, thinking maybe 1,2,3 turn the cold water down, and Dreams in December

We look at you

I saw your craigslist ad,
I nearly cried, 39 years
old and no one left to watch TV,
looking for someone 30-40
to hang out with at their home,
or someone else’s home, a home
you don’t know, haven’t known,
they’ve lived all their lives without you,
you starting over at 40, on the internet
looking like this, typing this and leaving
it for us to find, and we look at you
unable to understand what makes
someone do this, on white screens
with black type, and it’s like
every lie we tell ourselves about
life before bed were washed away,
leaving nothing but the truth we pretend
isn’t there



thinking maybe 1,2,3 turn the cold water down

Is this what we do now,
Sit and stare and grow old forgetting?
I can feel the lines on my face each time
you close your eyes and say
you’re tired…the world outside
is blasting colors at our windows
but we are here wanting to grow up
wanting to die
I don’t get it
sleeping soundly for another day
so what? the sun comes up and
we can see and superman gains the
ability to fly, he’s younger than we are at
75, he may last forever on the page…the guy against
the window tries to help me, I’m telling
the teller-ticket-taker someone left a phone,
I give it to her knowing she’s just gonna
sell the fucking thing, but there’s nothing I
can do, I could take it, steal it, destroy it
I don’t get it,
what do they want leaving things on the seats?
herded out of buses, the wrong buses,
idiot buses, he’s got thick glasses/Obama beret,
I die each time I see that
Days Inn, with the no cars
and pretend continental breakfast savior…
when am I going to blow it up?
I dunno, I’d like to soon, but there’s no
explosives left in a dying world,
just us, frown on our faces in the shower
leaning against the tiles afraid to pee,
thinking, ah the hell with it, then taking a
breath and starting all over again



Dreams in December

You, I saw you in my dreams
clawing at me again, it was like
the reality I feared, that you had been
planning for me, and tho in the dream
we had never left, in the world I’d
forgotten you came for me, in the subway
a chance meeting, someone tried to help
me, to get between us, but you’re always
so angry, so pained, are you like that
still? If so, I won’t believe you;

I ran and found a car, maybe in this
hard yellow light I could escape
but somewhere in my dreams
I end up losing control of the car,
the wires are crossed or…another
thing…I forget about you, and what
you want, if it’s anything at all,

I gasp in the seat of the car
curled up and freezing in the cold
metal of the cold outside, I gasp and
come to terms with this shaking reality,
it’s the morning, it’s December, you’re
out there in the blackness of black hole
space maybe dreaming of me too, I let that sink into
the frozen blanket that’s my memory


Tom Pescatore grew up outside Philadelphia, he is an active member of the growing punk/lit scene within the city and hopes to spread the word on Philadelphia’s new poets. He maintains a poetry blog: His work has been published in literary magazines both nationally and internationally but he’d rather have them carved on the Walt Whitman bridge or on the sidewalks of Philadelphia’s old Skid Row.

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