November 9-15, 2015: Tom Pescatore and Kevin Patrick McCarthy

Tom Pescatore and Kevin Patrick McCarthy

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Tom Pescatore
tpescatore17@gmail.com

Bio (auto)

Tom Pescatore can sometimes be seen wandering along the Walt Whitman bridge or down the sidewalks of Philadelphia’s old Skid Row. He might have left a poem or two behind to mark his trail. He maintains a poetry blog: amagicalmistake.blogspot.com.

The following work is Copyright © 2015, and owned by Tom Pescatore and may not be distributed or reprinted in any form whatsoever without written permission from the author.

Nightlife of the Living Dead

Home from offices
bordered by the sky,
sated with daylight & time.

Home to dinner in plastic containers,
cooked someplace faraway
and heated with radiation.

Home to television screens,
lights in the darkness burn bright
before a shower and sleep.

Home as the stopping post,
save those little crumbling,
pieces of life for next weekend.

Home to see those ghosts
of present and past decay,
appearing in the future aged.

Home as night life of your living dead,
hollow eyes and holy heads,
waking up in someone else’s tomorrow,

Only to go back to bed.

 

 


Kevin Patrick McCarthy
26@locuto.com

Bio (auto)

Kevin Patrick McCarthy is a Colorado poet, dramatist, essayist, and geologist. His early poems were well-received, but he didn’t return to poetry until the recent death of a friend. Since 2012, 17 of his poems have appeared in various journals, including NEAT, COMMON GROUND REVIEW, and WRITTEN RIVER. “Enough Sky” was commended (top 11 out of more than 13,000 entries) in The Poetry Society’s 2014 National Competition (UK).

The following work is Copyright © 2015, and owned by Kevin Patrick McCarthy and may not be distributed or reprinted in any form whatsoever without written permission from the author.

Jasper T. Fetchmeister

For most of his dozen
years, he carried the
newspaper home half
a mile, but we lived
in isolation

Every day, he lingered
at dusty intersections,
striking poses, listening
for applause, but few
caught the performance

Then we moved to the city
and he achieved the fame
for which he was destined

Children and the elderly
wise point with glee at
the regal bearer of leash,
umbrella, wallet, grapefruit,
notebook, sandwich …

I tell them we paid extra
for the hyper–floppy ears,
the marble eyes, the tail–
high strut, the thespian’s
instinct for audience
and opportunity

Now he stumbles sometimes,
and misses even the fattest
taunting squirrel, but when
we turn homeward, he still
asks to carry anything –
something splashy, please

The chest fills, the head
rises, and the fancy march
goes on forever

 


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