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Joe Decarolis contributed 3 poems to the
August 25, 2000 edition of Zzang; 4 poems to the September 26,
2000 edition; 2 poems to the November 28, 2000 edition, and 3 poems to the
February 2001 edition. He can be contacted at foma1984@hotmail.com.
The Fog on Your Front
The key to us is never let anyone
know it's magic.
He was whistling words he didn't
know
and getting mad at the others
for getting mad.
We could leave it left resolved
and you seeing the strings now;
never let us die
because this is the best I've got
yet.
You kept eyes on my mind,
monopolized;
and the sweetest taste of your
breath
keeps me alive all night.
Through the fog built up on the
windshield
I could see a perfect city
skyline.
(and it just reminded me
of how beautiful you really are.)
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The Next Coffees
"There was a feeling left unfinished
after last summer, and now it only
feels fulfilled in continuity,"
I told to you over your second cup
of coffee and mine of chocolates.
It's those little subliminal actions
so hard to read
that set off the sparks to be dismissed
(only right the first time).
It's just that feeling you give me,
not being afraid to laugh
or to leave these words undefined
(as long as you're by my side).
We tell more truths in our jokes and lies
than we ever wanted to show in our eyes.
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Hope to
In the middle of the traffic
I turned into myself
and climbed to the top of the
highest of cloudships
just so I could look out and say,
"I will be forever."
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On a Train
If you stare at anything
long enough,
it soon looks like it's coming
after you.
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Stop Me if You'd Call this One Corny
'Everyone has their vices'
he said to me past the stacked
ovens and half-eaten freebies
we'd received this afternoon...
and he told me with the way I lay
I've gotta have some sort
of release.
His world of chemicals can't
understand mine;
he sees every word as everyone's
next potential lie.
This is my them:
the sweet, softest summer sighs,
the sweaty, soulful wrist-ripping sounds,
smeared ink on pages,
and mostly in your eyes
lies my release, my solution,
my reason I survive.
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Federal
Riding through this shell
(towards the center)
with my head half-resting on my right hand
I could almost see
this city the way it once was:
the next-door neighbors and their kids
with small world backyards
and the bustle of commerce pushing
everyone to work, but maybe
with a smile,
the feared century change still
so many decades away.
My, how things have turned to shit.
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untitled 9/12
After actually enough sleep
(for a change)
I'm kicked awake by what
feels like summer sun in September
so that all my cells
and my drying plaster breaths
jump up in greeting at once.
This has only just begun,
(like every other past and to come)
and it's the greatest event of everyday-
to know it's ours.
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My Cohen Afterworld
We've got tomorrow lined up
like clockwork
(like we've got until the end of it all):
a plan for if it rains
and whether or not we've the house
to ourselves.
Tonight if I stay up any later
I'll just write something typical
(that I'll hate and you'll want to read)
that you'll eventually see since it,
if nothing else,
can always make you smile.
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Say Something You'd Say in Your Heyday
It was all us,
listening to your advice and going to your show
and you left early with no goodbye
(me to my enemy and an empty plastic)
because you had something to show;
we're surviving daily skydives now.
I had to swim out of the
sharpest seas to be here now,
and all you said upon leaving was that
my day has long gone.
"Don't say goodbye-
say something great..."
Are you trying to say I'm past?
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The Common Cause
He stood onstage to sing
and write in script (like scriptures)
"what we call human nature
in actuality is human habit" and
he was wrong.
We've been born into believing
we need a government on paper
that can accomplish more alone
than our million human hearts;
we've built our throne into a bed
and fallen asleep (with the ovens on)
content in a superficiality
of perfection and scientific morality
married to a guise
of conservative sanctity (masking greed).
The books have been changed to
fit the sings that are in style,
but nowhere would they dare to
dream back to the wonder of fires lit
in children's eyes to look out
across a sea of stars or a blue
sky that never ends that has
no explanation in sight.
(we don't want to see the magician's strings so we can still feel amazed)
The answers have all fallen short
and if there is no great hand creating
us all for one purpose
there can be nothing except ourselves
(the window of the eyes above all others)
born within;
what we call human nature
in actuality is American inbred culture.
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The Count
There are as many ways
(to look up) to see the stars
as there are to die
in the desert.
I wish I could change or at least ease
this train of thought
but I can't.
Seeing my reflection of a moving
hand in the blank TV up front
was a reminder that there's art and poetry
in everything (that I've forgotten).
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As You Will
The last five messages pass by like one long speech
saying everything I want to yell
in song out of my window now.
It might be the winter's return or just
the air around but I feel like who
I was two years ago this time.
They're tearing down holiday lights
all throughout three towns (that might as well be one)
and I think so many things
at times like this it's impossible
to track them all down for later,
but one keeps recurring-
I still feel like I can start tonight
and change your world for the better.
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