Victor Perrotti
frisco pierour arms on the rail
we stand at end of the black night rhythmically swaying with wooden pier solid, beneath bare feet into strong bodies the wood channels a deep ocean swell we look toward the canopy of stars and our destinies more burning stars for fleeting lives than grains of sand drifting in the ocean it’s our footprints the beach holds dear two faces ☊two faces facing east and west
two faces looking front to back two faces coming and going knowing where you’ve been knowing where you’re going unsure of where you are one head, facing opposite directions two faces competing for a mind two faces with eyes that never meet two faces denying existence of the other concealed behind countenance hidden from the present moment one face hiding behind the other one head, of tragedy and comedy two faces facing north and south two faces looking up and down two faces coming and going knowing a tether to the ground knowing an infinity in space unsure of where you place birth to grave, with no middle two faces to go the distance two faces is all you get two faces and just one neck choking on public safety
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existential crossroads ☊we arrive at the crossroads
with baggage in tow sometimes too heavy, for one person like frost when he fled for the dismal swamp in despair, of a rejected marriage proposal or van gogh when he cut off, a piece of his ear in remorse, of having threatened his friend — gauguin, with a razor or you when you contemplated suicide in anguish, of believing the world is a better place without you comes profound sorrow to consider i may never have taken “The Road Not Taken” i may never have stared into Starry Night and i may never have been touched — by you summer sleepson cold gray water
ducks ,unable to create, sleep with their beaks under wings broken trees moss and the dried blood at night when the houses become silent and flashing windows go dark children are disciplined in the ways of the choking deer eternal winter remember eastern woodlands brown two hearts in silence in the meadow a singular sea of dead leaves rusting cars, that dream into the ground of ancient people carburetors and summer eves splitting atoms in
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