Words and Poetry: Nicholas Pascarella

i. chance

this hot bed is nirvana
with vice grips,
but drums draw my feet 
to floor.
the clocks are tall wrong
but as long
as my socks
hum the city melody of movement,
the nightingale conductor 
meets me halfway between razors-
shady promise,
and the sensors shed their coats.

past the dirty urban scenes of washed conversation,
in subway cars with betweens,
stations amiss in blurs,
white worker flower lights 
warp along my eye rims.
but on the rise, the sun
smelts a sea sculpture,
and fire island falls away.

ii. turning

drygone world - relentless.
holy peace and quiet 
unattainable
                        luxury,
         but here... 
I      pull 
hood over hair,
rain patters on my coat.
little birds 
sing in the shower,
standing marmots call warnings
of an eagle distant,
riding thermals,
chirping out meals
on her own dedicated 
frequency over, over, and over
the rushing river;
I fill my lungs
with high, 
fresh mountain air
and listen closely:

the breeze carries an earthen tone, 
this sacred space enjoys
no people talking, gushing
steam vents,
squealing brakes, backup beepers,
grinding 
construction or jerry-braking 
rumbletrucks.
no horns blaring or the WHOOSH 
of air brakes,
no dogs barking, doors
slamming,
HVACs buzzing,
street sweepers swishing,
bicycles jingling,
no subways 
quaking the ground 'neath my feet.
no copters thwopping,
churning saws or cabbies 
yelling,
motorcycles revving or cars
racing,
no boomboxes blaring, finally-
           a respite 
from the subway prison of
“IT’S SHOWTIME, SHOWTIIIIME!”
and the olfactory offenses 
of diesel fumes, rotting 
food waste, 
subterranean brake dust and grime,
grease and hot methane steam,
body odor and armpits on the subway...
                all 
                              fade
into distant faces in the wisps
curling across the bluffs,
and the sun breaks the clouds
fixing me
in a rain beam.

iii. pathfinder

shielded towers and cake-sliced peaks
crusted over with powder,
two masses smashed
into lift, while wind god
chisels watchful eyes into the mountains,
singing desert songs
in the key of Dylan.
my scuffed boots keep the time,
speaking with rests,
crunching dirt and stones,
sand shifting stairs
to the ridge
where time is cutting feet
on the jagged edge,
dizzying slope 
a gleeful spinning skirt below,
and the visitors
don’t stay long, but
make a stirring racket,
spilling needles from the trees,
tap dancing the smiling valleys
and tendering lines
that would make Salvador Dali blush.

iv. order

ragged cloud hats
swirl Fosse
round pine
dotted
snow skin tops,
white seas churn, opening
chasms to laser sunpoints
on scrolling land,
unrolling trees in the mist,
and a trillion backlit raindrops
fall like fantasy,
each a glinting tail
across the beams
for the valley,
evaporating with navy speed.