By Joe Dinki
I sense that year, I swear.
Yet, it dissipates slowly, is spread evenly
In fairness, bearing no regret.
I was safe, that much I can say;
As safe as a child set upon a raft of raging seas.
seeking passage through the heart of steel,
Graying fools forbearance, decaying dreams
And schemes, my neighbor’s bills careening
Up and down our street, their TV pull them
There is no place for youth upon the mornings
They cracked open on the pan; there is no room
For logic or words that heal amid the clutter
From the sky they hear.
The plates of commerce shift and we all take
A tumble; the heavens moor the clouds on
Tendrils from God’s fingers to deny obscure the
View of planets star’s resplendent glory.
As if their wonder may distract us sure from
Our hammers and our filth.
Is this not thy will?
His wounds a cracked the sky, only to reveal further scars?
To pull the heart, the surface, towards some
Grand display of all our brothers’ long desires?
We suffer sure, far off from God’s last remaining
Glory in the Keep deep beneath this soil; how we
Toil long upon his furrowed brow only to discover
How wrong we are about each other…
Fate do slip between our fingers, and we seem to
Accept this folly true, for if fate were captured do,
It would never move on, it would never taunt another
To do his bidding graces…
1961 upon my palm, I swear, the gift of angel’s
true; to be left behind the curtain, drawn and quartered
to never see the remains of their strife,
to never seek His glory,
to eschew those buckskin shoes of placement.
To pull the cover off my feats,
To see my wings, encasement.
Joe Dinki is a New York City based writer whose work is culled directly from his experiences. Yes, he follows the first rule of writing: write what you know. From his Catholic High School experiences, to his brush with visceral shopping center culture to his dealings in high profile “Show Business’, Joe’s work is funny, biting and always rings true.