John Biscello

It is impossible

to live up to the lyrical,

its angelmarked

bendings of antenna,

and sonic proofs,

to nestle

in the hollows

of pitch,

half-bird, half-wraith,

attempting the almighty bait

and switch,

to con the heavens

into granting you

a seraph’s amnesty,

to sing down the stars

with a parched, mortal throat,

ambitiously widening

to swallow the sea,

or at least gag

happy

on the sea’s coral-racked

dreams

and wrecks

(how beautiful

a death

if one could taste

Atlantis

before fading

to black)

Lyricism’s

double standards,

and inordinate demands

on day to day

living,

might be best

left

to pages,

talismanic rants,

and undersea dreamverses,

where direct commands

from queenly blue stars

leave enough time

and space

to do

the goddamned

dishes.