Joseph M. Gant

 

Joseph M. Gant is a widely published poet and fiction writer. His work has appeared in Lines Written w/ a Razor, Mandala Magazine, The Houston Literary Review, and Ashe Journal of Experimental Spirituality among others. He dwells in the Greater Philadelphia area where he starves, awaiting the Summer 2010 publication of his full-length poetry collection with Rebel Satori Press. He is a contributor for Outsider Writers Collective and is presently accepting donations of pens.

 

Joseph M. Gant's Website: www.sexandmurder.com

 

A Million Years

 

a million years ago I saw the bright

and varied feathers 

of time plucked from the last bird singing 

 

and laughed. thrust 

henceforth into a long and

growing destitution wave I can not help

but ride. I hate it and rebel. 

I fight the tides 

calling me ashore, the pull

of moon’s long reaching arms. I spit

 

upon the shores unforgiving, sand

between my teeth and groans of salt

filled lungs;

 

laughter but a joke to me in surf’s receding,

loveless good-bye wave. the air is full 

 

of impish tines that pierce the night.

a bird naked and ashamed

to be my love flies overhead, laughing. 

I piss directions home 

in a younger boy’s fresh castle.

 

---

 

Each Of Us

 

we are all just,

each of us, waiting

stains upon the face of time— 

and fading.

 

wiped by the pendulum

swinging, or

piled into the hourglass bottom,

hanged by the heirloom

watch chain passed 

from granddad, wrapped 

around our throats— 

 

that’s all we are, all we could be.

the ticking hands that

push us through, mere instruments

of gears that turn us in

for crimes against the Night’s resolve

to shine upon our dials.

 

---

 

Extinction Season

 

with the deed 

to heaven

in thieving hands 

and an angel’s corpse 

beside, 

we hide;

the parlous shame of what

we took from prophets’ empty

pockets—  

we tattooed the face of god with pieces of the war we shattered

in damnation’s lapse 

of solecism. for the damned 

have taken the token of Time; 

the race is done— 

and no one keeps 

the pride 

and all is as it was,

as it will forever 

be— carved by hands, of wings, 

entrenched in filth and mercy’s laughter hole.

and so we hide in darkness, waiting for the end 

of what was done;

an impropriety spun like thread, looming on forever’s woeful blame.

 

---

 

It Was Mary’s Choice

 

and now we kneel

and now we pray— 

 

before an altar

topped in red 

plastic biohazard buckets

 

full of tears misplaced in vain,

for Joseph

who had little say—

 

She swore he wasn’t the Father.

 

---

 

Another Problem

 

lie to me

on that bed

we made

of anger

 

madness and love

 

split the difference

in your favor

I never did 

care for change

 

but don’t tell me

what you think

I might 

so dearly wish to hear

 

I fucked you

and that’s all

I think

I can handle for

a Wednesday night.