Monday, April 1, 2019




So there was ascension into realms not hearing
whatever destiny of outcasts in city lights

mirrored the stigmatic offerings
of awareness in a sometimes vacuumed life

where I hear the voice of America crying,
circumambulating through atmospheres

with repetitions of subliminal speech-chatter
in the mystic dark of electrical storms

she who doubted religion’s light became
in her own right an awe-inspiring martyr

sojourning from icy palaces for the rich
collectors of human races unfolding

on some rising avatar’s altar of love
heat signatures were left in my psyche

declaiming exit strategies from grief
forming proverbs webbing on her skin

& on the slick canvas of her pimpled back
my fingers felt the scriptures integrating

as I nursed the logistics of her meaning
consigning a godly mandorla of rebirth

in one great pristine flight of infinite vowels
there were no final words for silent praying


The aegis of sorcery is upon you
women waiting for a breath of fire
in long cold auguries of thought

implanted eggs of beauty crack
from undercurrents rising fast
in a bloom of harbingers growing

as forests of the dulcimer moment burn
your old self melding into kinder earth
for seeds of salvation’s reborn tree

roots of the opaque ruling realm
I build like parapets these memories
swirling the ambrosia cocktail

I sip like natural holy water
until the sweet transcendental wave overcomes
time’s lingering abandon

I  read the book of godly minds tonight
in your grove now the love root lengthens
into heavens of earthly design


In the dew-spittle clinging to fallen lips
my vision sculpted mountains green
& shimmering in summer auras,
before damp rainfall became a sweat
spiraling on the contour of your hips
I sought the image water mirrored.
The sudden rough currents displayed you
settling under the bright sky’s canopy
in a cream-stained aura shrouding
the fiery-red sun’s slow leaving.
A man like ageless death, I sought only
the stillness pooling with the leaves
in the meadow’s unmarred center,
not known to any bones of trespassers
or the beasts lost to evolutionary gaps
sowing the secret species of that being
our flesh & blood would soon sanctify,
there, in mind-entombed memories yet
preserving humanity’s unearthly faults.


PETER MAGLIOCCO writes from Las Vegas, Nevada, where he’s been active in the small press as editor, writer, and artist for many years. A multiple nominee for the Pushcart Prize and Best of the Net, he has recent poetry at Poets Pulp Press, Poetic Diversity, I Am Not A Silent Poet, Literary Yard, and elsewhere. His latest poetry book is Poems for the Downtrodden Millennium from The Medulla Review Publishing.

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