Anthony Liccione

"Winners and Losers"

Today I lost an argument
with a my father,
and he won the reaps
of satisfaction;
and still I don't feel
like a loser,
and I bet
he doesn't feel
much a winner.

Death taps my shoulder
like a poker player
taps his chip
against a hand,
he turns me around
to face him,
my eyes plug into
his steel eyes
and I see life
flash before me,
wishing our lines
of communication
would end.
Stale wax
reverses itself
from a bottomed plate,
rising itself to
a candlestick,
the hot drips
slowly running
upward around
a burning wick,
loose and free
it came together
once again,
the beauty of its
carved creation,
delicate colors
soft aroma--
it stands anew.
A lighter approaches
a flame ignites,
and looking on I wish
a gust of wind
would have come through
and blew back the yellow
flame dancing atop,
transeunt to time
elusive to blood
that breaks
the sunset before dark.

"Four Bald Men"

Four bald men sitting
diagonal from each other,
rolling a marble to each
other, the eye inside
spinning yellowish blue,
where a full moon stares
emptily, envying the world-
at a thirsty desert
miles away from a cactus,
flimsy planted in sand.

Where the bald eagle
soars by,
in search for hare-
miles away they sit,
from a strand of river
that runs singly
to a part of the earth,
where the flesh of grass
grows green and lush-
as each man is wondering
if he will ever return hair,

this desolate place.

"Evanescence"

One way to kill a diamond,
the demon of a woman's
desire and pride, best friend--
quickest way to end a diamond,
where the lemon shines sour,
a soul bound in stone
of pierced ears and belly,
ring around the finger,
lingerie and white glitter,

is to turn out the lights.
A simple flick of the switch,
and see how a white horse
gallops in the dark.

"and the window cried"

"it was the last," she promised.
this time the police didn't come;
she just left on a day it rained.
she packed up all of her goods
and left the bad of four years.
three in the morning
didn't account for the strike-
"but i was uncontrollable."
i tried to tell her the booze
left the bruise on her right eye,
but behind she knew it was really i.

winter had passed
and we decided to paint
our first-bought house
sunshine yellow,
replacing the gray.
i promised i would quit,
some time elapsed
and so did my promise.
and here i sit
ten months later
before the window
in a yellow house
on a wet day
with a beer in my hand

thinking,
and the window cried outside.

"Christmas Eve"

I poke into night,
where corners of whores
ready in their Santa hats
approach my car
dressed like sexy elves
or a prized present,

back home stockings
hung from long legs
to the foot of the bed,
her cranberry juice flow--
lying on the sheets
as a Christmas cookie
of a cutout angel,
straight from the oven
carved and craved
naked of frosting-

soon into sleep,
I dreamt once more
of eating her again,
the triangle-shaped box
a meal in a metal bed
crumbs and tangled hairs
on the wooden floor-

I would unwrap her
the blankets,
ribbon tied hair-
the cold toes that curled
in the night,

throw a log into the fire,
and come to her
with another long log
from my snowmen boxers
into her warm box-
as the mistletoe
holding below
would lose its grip
of a simple kiss,
while we shook the
foundation of the
gingerbread house,
that Christmas morning;

two glasses of leftover
spiked eggnog knocked
to the floor, and me
tormenting over the question:
if I've been naughty
or nice this year.

"Yeserday, What Was"

I remember us-
how we danced those endless nights;
twelve struck with a magical stroke,
the moon above would melt
in our eyes,
      young love graced as one.

Summer days heat
we would go to the beach:
feet sank into sand
double-fudge dripped off our cones.
She would wrap herself
in the cool blue lake
and stroke,
      afloat the thrusting waves.

Yesterday pictures,
a frame can only hold.
White and gray ran with me
and bent the concepts captured in.
I sit with two alone-
when I talk to her today,
only the birds answer back.
The t.v. gives me intention,
the radio motion;
she is half-conscious
and I am her stranger:
that feeds, diapers and
tucks her expired eyes to bed.
Her face is half-beaten
with gravity, muscles weak to
control her bladder.
      It hurts to smile.

But still I hope for the better.
Soon the day will end
and it will be dark. I
will wash her nipples
and change her sheets. Then
at the stroke of twelve,
I shall dance again-
to the thousand beats of eternity;
that you will never be skeleton
      when I am in ghost.

"Empty Vase"

An empty vase
untouched by
human fingertips,
abound with wide
hips and recessed
base, long oval-
shaped neck with
several rings, lips
that flare to the rim
two curved handles
attached to the body
asking to be caress,
a slim fit of white
biscuit porcelain-
enwrapped in
newspapers
and tucked
away for
safety as
an appeal,
she stands,
unconfident.

Until her ancient
-stained clothing
shed off, moist
water drawn in
the bottom vase-
where a stem
glides in, long
and withdrawn
as the stamen
begins, placed
against a window
curves delicate to
sunlight and a whisper
of warm rays- she feels
loved with this stem

embedded inside, and
the bulb aroused in the
warmth of sun and
nurturing water shaded
with moist hips-
accord of sepals
and petals
hand-in-glove.

Until finally the bulb
explodes, retracting its
petals like wings on a
butterfly, a sky clashes
into clouds open blue,

and alive.
Outside the window
walking by
a young boy and girl
hand-in-hand
in love making
their way
to the park
where a flower
garden is yet
to feel, explore
pour pure
honey on
a seed
and, bloom
into one.