Sky is high above the wedged carnival rides across the wide
open asphalt while so much is hidden. Misplace me lost like
an airliner undersea looking up at joists, and see the windows
mist. There is truth despite the lies, right here in a hermit’s hut.
Open my eyes, moist. Bring up the lights. Maybe I am broken,
destined for all that is long forgotten, entombed like a mastodon
of old. I live in a small ball, this raveled mile. Pinocchio’s nose
goes up. And, see, out like a periscope, a branch webs the path
to the faraway green grass as I cry. But soon, I’ll carry myself
there. Unstuck, yes, I shall lift all my cargo and chase tomorrow,
my concrete runway here to the other side. Take off my mask,
I shall, and unveil my teeth. In truth, after repair, I shall be there,
even if in reality only a daydreaming tiger tank. And maybe
all shall see a smile, rather than gray tarpaulin. Tusks, not fangs.
Joe Bisicchia writes of our shared dynamic. An Honorable Mention recipient for the Fernando Rielo XXXII World Prize for Mystical Poetry, his works have appeared in numerous publications. Commonality of humankind runs through all his work, and he writes of the extraordinary power of faith in ordinary, everyday life. The collection widewide.world to unwind has been published by Cyberwit. His website is www.widewide.world.