Marc Pietrzykowski

Every Tribe a Tongue

by Marc Pietrzykowski

We all of us must grow old and die and so

I better selfie the shit out of myself now, here,

in this bathroom mirror with my head

pressed against the head of my bff, or not

quite my bff, my bff for tonight, whatever,

I don't even know what I want, what I want

is to not be afraid, not to die, not to live.

My bros and me blazing trees, checking out the hotties,

all said totally ironically. Pancake House!

The ceiling! I am broken and alone! Then start it all again,

because we all of us must grow old and die and so

I better vine the shit out of myself here, now,

or no one will know I’m alive, none will know

that I lived and grew old and died within myself.

Not Scared

by Marc Pietrzykowski

Trouble, a cat with one eye and three legs,

clings to my leg, tail whipping like a fire hose.

I'd be lost without her, without the piss smell

and horny morning howls—seems like Trouble

is always in heat, but none of the big-headed toms

in the neighborhood want to fuck with her,

they'd rather get with Bar Fight, or One True God,

than mess with the miss most likely

to tear their ball-sac open in the heat of passion.

I'm not scared. I don't go looking for her,

she finds me when she's ready, I don't need to know

what she does all night long, why my sheets

are in such a furry snarl when I wake;

I fill the food bowl, scoop the box, and wait

for her to do something unexpected, unspeakable,

and carnivorous. Most of the time

she just stares at me, or at the ceiling,

or a chair. It's all the same to Trouble,

so there's no point in being afraid,

or in being hopeful, or in anything

but love. Even Trouble craves a cuddle now and then.

I Can Hear Her Bones Growing, or Cracking

by Marc Pietrzykowski

America always tries too hard, chewing

with her mouth open,

walking her huge, stupid dogs

right down the middle of the street,

letting them shit just anywhere.

Like a trumpet solo in C sharp

when C would do just as fine, thank you,

like the idea of soloing in the first place,

like Miles-Fucking-Davis, trying

way too hard, trying to be cool

while the veins in his neck and head

swole up like a garden hose

after the tap gets flipped and the water

flows. She tries too hard and then

says things like, “better to have tried too hard

than not tried at all,” as though she

was Caesar, prescribing the bounds

of logic with a sweep of the hand. Laughing

too loud, snorting, the guffaw

is an American invention. I can't do much more

than say I love you, you big, goofy,

toothsome girl, and how strange it is

to feel older than one's parent. I only hope

that these are adolescent gestures

and not the onset of early dementia.

Marc Pietrzykowski lives and works and writes in Niagara County, NY, USA. He has published various and sundry poems, stories, and essays in various and sundry journals, as well as 7 books of poetry and 3 novels. His most recent novel is The Emissary, and most recent book of poems, Kindness is Never Small. He also writes under the pseudonyms Potassium Cockburn and Fred C. Applebaum. You can visit Marc virtually at www.marcpski.com.