Other Poems by:

Anthony Liccione


we die, we die
everyday is end
death hovers across the sky
death sold at public markets
death lurking in my icebox
death sighs on every breath
a flower that sings Spring
a flower that folds Fall,
death in my alphabet soup
death in the vein of my car 
death placing bids at auctions
death rolled in my wallet
we die, we die
everyday is end

Coming to Sound

It's when the birth of sound, 
exits back to creation-where 
the crickets outside are left 
to bicker silence in the night, 
like a wheel that rolls
back to the past of invention,
it's the tempered agony that 
travels in the speed of love
from a muscled fat tongue
that sweats, tastes and whips 
out words that would bring
a mother to tears to hear
the sound of birth.

Breaking Through Heaven's Gates

I didn't mean to take your innocence
and eat what God has sanctified,
but I was cut in the moment of flesh
and ecstasy, as ripping wings off
an angel to watch bleed in Heaven.
I took the holiest of bread and ate to my 
pleasure, significance what wasn't mine;
I replaced the diamond in your soul with
a slush of snow. And now the sin has
melted in my skin, and I wish I could give
you back your greenness. that treasure
that was meant to stay deep-seated 
in the ocean.
But there you lay wholesomely on the
playground grass, with a September sky
above us and moist dew between your legs,
tempted to eat the fruit of your cherry tree-
next to the seesaw and the swirling slide;
when I slid my train into your tunnel.
You clapsed to the shear tear of thread
and on the thin lining of ruby I ruptured
through Heaven's jasper gates to oneness;
the birth canal of your futures imprints.
As the wind picked up and oscillated through
the seesaw and single seated swings, in unison
they squeaked to the ghost-sway of our movements-
where awakened leaves at last broke off branches,
caught and spun a whirlwind in the sandbox.

On a Day That Never Came

My father died today
a once poor truck driver,
who went into prison golden
and came out gray.
Like a new book, that just sits
and sits and waits to be read,
till pages have turned yellow,
before self-discovery. With skin
as feeble to tear as wallpaper.
He lost his father while waiting,
who died a better-off man.
Today I seen a dove
collide into the sunset,
on the way to heaven
and a ruined raven
chewing on death,
over the pavement.
People are laughing at me today
for having holes in my pockets,
and ink-blood on my fingers-
a thirty-something old writer,
who strangles words
from dictionaries, and feeds
on the decay of poetry.
I've already drunk down
my first cup of tea,
standing over the stove where
I wait on the tea kettle
to whistle me another cup ready,
distance that I have been
here once before, waiting
for some odd anticipation
that one day my father
will come knocking on the skin
of my door to visit,
so I may pour him a cup of tea,
and chew over the fat.

Everlasting Water

And where would I be,
if and if I had not known you-
the fate we met, that meant
my reason for living,
I would be a phrase left by
in lead pencil, the stencil of soft
sentences to sing your love on paper-
I would be the script with
nothing to say noting worth,
words unread and unheard,
But, I am not that man I once was
that went stumbling in the shambles
of silent loneliness from woman
to woman, flesh to bedroom,
feasting on lust, dehydrating in love
searching singly to become oneness,
for with you found I am the glass
filled of your freshened water,
together we drink and quench
the thirst that shadows in hearts.


Anthony Liccione is from Upstate New York and has been writing poetry for over 
ten years. Some of his work has or will appear in Snow Monkey, Baby Clams Press, 
Laura Hird, Nuvein Magazine, The Lampshade and Mad Hatters Review. He will soon 
to be releasing his second chapbook Parched and Colorless with The Moon 
Publishing, and a full-volume book of poems Back Words and Forward, which will 
be made available Jan/2006 at any online bookstore (ISBN: 1424113563)

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