THREE POEMS BY PETER SCHWARTZ


          kingdom of the pawn


          I.

          today, a pawn
          tomorrow, a pawn
          together they make everything secondhand
          as the heart of yesterday mixes with
          the everyday

          nothing will clean the already empty
          while the monster calendar
          above our beds kills our pets
          and the hard radio
          only plays inwards

          like a chameleon
          surrounded by
          nothingness


          II.

          the muddy gravity
          of hope up close
          can make horizons seem almost
          almighty or impossible as a marathon
          on a pinhead but the true
          gospel has always been
          volatile

          a pawn is a pawn
          in momentary cement
          begging for an aftermath worth living
          until the next ticket to the next context
          human horsepower
          meaning itself moving
          outwards again


          III.

          this haunted migration
          to the jade plateau
          where lullabies lose their power
          to cradle the bedrock
          beneath them

          dead tourniquets
          stretched beyond their limits
          the meat of my salvation
          stripped to bones
          and rot:

          left out
          by the toxic logic
          of apettite

          burning
          like a foxhole
          somwhere

          in the fragile
          warehouse
          of conscience


          december


          I am human antique
          red-handed; in the house
          of winter.

          these past few months
          have been eternal.
          I have played wife
          to myself and survived
          in stages -

          tea, lunch, bed
          spreading myself out
          like playgrounds,
          parking lots, and
          graveyards.

          dressed and
          undressed the need
          looks the same
          and suffers every
          repetition I can
          name,

          because need
          is a
          haunted medicine.

                      -

          and so I come
          red-handed; to this
          incredible museum
          of betweens

          which was once
          a house.

          to hear what's
          living, the wet rush
          of being here
          despite the other
          months -

          january to
          november; daylight and
          euthanasia; the shrinking
          and side effects
          of love's many
          mousetraps

          and its inevitable tunnel
          to the snow-
          lights.



          four kinds of light


          1.

          twinkle twinkle
          wherever threads tangle
          let them be undone

          whether by inertia
          or incognito
          or by catapult

          on the whirlette
          of almost

          2.

          twinkle out of
          the small coffins
          of pathos

          that bury
          starry creatures
          in pyramids

          of impossible
          reversal

          3.

          twinkle as
          the blindside rosette
          and covenant call

          for another
          green audition
          to quiet the

          shadow's
          shadow

          4.

          twinkle so
          the makeshift
          lotus knows.


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Peter Schwartz is the editor of 'eye' and the associate art editor of Mad Hatters' Review. He has about 200 poems in print and online and nearly 100 paintings on various literary websites. His paintings are featured on 13 online galleries. He's had a few small exhibitions and is currently working on paintings for the Amsterdam Whitney Gallery in Chelsea NYC.


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