Thomas Pescatore poems

Editor back-issues, poetry

Grips You seem to be falling out,like fading away, playingfool/goof/phantom/drunken joketo grown up little boys and girlsacross sad broken south Philly homesthat chug and churn like the machinesof the past regurgitating oldmemories onto old faces and wrinklesof the mourning night tooclose to sunrise to remember—too locked in twisted hornswith dead things, meaningless thingsthat need to be let go— a drowninguniversal truth…

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