Joseph Lisowski Verse-Virtual 2016 July

July 2016

After growing up under the shadow of Heppenstall Steel Mill in Pittsburgh, Pa., I have spent much of my life near the sea, including 10 years in the Caribbean, which serves as the setting for my three published mystery novels, Full Body Rub, Looking for Lisa, and Looking for Lauren. On occasion, I've gone back "home," trying to fit into my old neighborhood. It has been alleged that I've had many aliases, none of which I have acknowledged. I am no one else. I now tutor writing at the Bon Air Juvenile Correctional Center in Richmond, VA.

Shadow Self/Dante Dream 23-28

23

The mirror! It's a mirror
filled with men's heads,
each older than the last,
encased in a mold of lead.
The glass clouds then clears.
A young man is nailed to a foot path.
I scream. "No, this must,
cannot be me!" My shadow
bears a breast. I suckle ravenously,
an infant hunter of my own dark side.

I suck and suck.
Swell to adult size.

24

Vague memories rise between
the endless crash of dreams.
How can I tell the difference?
All seems suctioned farther in.

A man who feels like me
beats his thighs in the frozen woods.
Sting first, then a dull ache.
He believes he's free of frostbite.
In an instant it is spring.
He stands, staff in hand, tending sheep.
A time before cities were born.
Can this be me, this sturdy
vibrant form that casts no shadow?
Who is this soul on the other side?

25

Nightmares curl under my eyes.
A snake with six legs
caresses a man for hours, it seems.
The man dozes. Each foot becomes a mouth,
sinks into flesh and chews.
The figures blur like melting wax.
A snake is reformed.
It slips away, hissing,
seeking another form.

I rub my eyes, shake my head.
A snake approaches.
Its tongue spits out
a warm, wet kiss.

26

I've lost what I don't know.
Is this birth or death?
The nowhere between?
I am helpless in the pitch
and roll of dreams. I am counted
again and again in rolls of the damned.
They are so ridiculous,
their defenses, I mean.
I listen and hear my own voice.

27

All useless, this litany
of lives, sincere souls
who justify their fall.
It's always, "my" or "mine."
As if the heart is deceived by blood,
by the air it carries.

These souls are talking flames,
tongues of fire.
I see them and instinctively
reach for my mouth.
If only I . . . .
If only I . . . .

28

What terror has been done
in the name of God I can only guess.
All violence is cruel.
Especially this masquerade—
God's justice, man's curse.

"Trust my words," my shadow says,
"for they are true."
I distrust my ears, believe my eyes
only when darkness seals.
I will trust only when dreaming stops
and time forever sleeps.