tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-115350002011-04-21T23:33:01.552-05:00<i>poetry and poets</i>tony galluccihttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15098003384579682304noreply@blogger.comBlogger471100tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-11535000.post-1135031941263297492005-12-19T16:36:00.000-06:002005-12-19T16:42:47.496-06:00

Two of my vignettes, Waiting to Deliver and My Radiant Sin, have been accepted for publication. What's particularly gratifying is that i consider these two of my better pieces, certainly the two best unpublished, but they have been ignored by publishers who always seemed to want something to come full circle -- to have a plot as it were. These pieces merely sandwich time and freeze a moment. But

tony galluccihttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15098003384579682304noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-11535000.post-1117166652047139162005-05-26T19:02:00.000-05:002005-07-28T02:40:58.763-05:00

more stuff coming from me and from Sam Skeist soon.Sam has a new book out, featuring many of the pieces you see here -- ladder-wheel -- i just got some copies today and it's seething with humanity. Congrats Sam!

tony galluccihttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15098003384579682304noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-11535000.post-1113291589598001742005-04-04T02:39:00.001-05:002005-04-12T02:42:50.516-05:00

Samuel Akiva Pui-Ying Huang Skeistwhen I was littlewatching movies cartoonsit was always goodguys versus bad guysi always preferred the badguyswell first off they always had better clothesblacks redsthey never wore nonsensical capes spandex or latex bootssome had horns claws and fangsi liked thatthey just seemed hardercooleri can’t remember the last time I watched a cartoonit’s been months since

tony galluccihttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15098003384579682304noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-11535000.post-1113291568008216062005-04-04T02:39:00.000-05:002005-05-24T19:39:49.463-05:00

Samuel Akiva Pui-Ying Huang Skeistlast nighta clowncut off his facefor he was tiredof charadehe laughed and thoughtnow I am freethen thought againrestitched the facechildren screamat faceless clowns

tony galluccihttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15098003384579682304noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-11535000.post-1113291540767732692005-04-04T02:38:00.001-05:002005-04-12T02:40:38.930-05:00

Samuel Akiva Pui-Ying Huang SkeistShe’d seen me naked dozens of times and had never noticed I never undressed. I know the pattern… intrigue, seduce, embrace, get as close as you can without losing any distance. Keep everything shallow and never lose composure. Keep intimacy raw, glazed in passion’s scent, and always side step any type of attachment. It’s a coital kabuki theatre where deception’s

tony galluccihttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15098003384579682304noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-11535000.post-1113291514572603352005-04-04T02:38:00.000-05:002005-04-12T02:41:06.276-05:00

Samuel Akiva Pui-Ying Huang Skeistpaper piñatadonkey or sheepborn and painteddressed in bright colorsto be boughtbrokenand spill sugared innardsthe skin will crackunder blind bludgeoningthe children can seeyou are nothingbut a shell

tony galluccihttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15098003384579682304noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-11535000.post-1113291490196839852005-04-04T02:37:00.001-05:002005-04-12T02:41:58.223-05:00

Samuel Akiva Pui-Ying Huang Skeista crimson cranebalancedon one legbeneath a churning crownof weeping cloudsone acidic dropslidesfrom the cracked tip of its tattered beakmy lifea solitary beada lone ragged feather fallssilentweightless graceripples throughout the sea

tony galluccihttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15098003384579682304noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-11535000.post-1113291468795314572005-04-04T02:37:00.000-05:002005-04-12T02:41:31.666-05:00

Samuel Akiva Pui-Ying Huang Skeistthere i wasolderwith a different facebut it was mei’m surefloating amidst vomitand bath waterdead?i’m not surebut I stood over meand felt no remorse

tony galluccihttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15098003384579682304noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-11535000.post-1113291442924236182005-04-04T02:36:00.000-05:002005-04-12T02:42:25.243-05:00

Samuel Akiva Pui-Ying Huang Skeisti have becomea dream walkerstill I heard truthin tonight’s wind

tony galluccihttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15098003384579682304noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-11535000.post-1113291165735234982005-04-03T03:32:00.000-05:002005-04-12T02:44:00.046-05:00

Samuel Akiva Pui-Ying Huang Skeist“Yo.”“Hey. What up.”“Wassup witchoo man? Where ya’ off to?”“On my way to the park…Just gonna’ chill out and journal dive.”“Sounds good…what’s in the bag?”“Notin’ special, a bottle of water, cigarettes, journal, my father’s head.”“Your father’s head? What, what, well, where’s the body?”“In the ground of course… You fuckin’ weirdo.”

tony galluccihttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15098003384579682304noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-11535000.post-1113291133339772442005-04-03T03:31:00.001-05:002005-04-12T02:44:35.466-05:00

Samuel Akiva Pui-Ying Huang SkeistMy mood swings are like ridin’ one of them old wooden coasters. Steadily rising like the upwards incline before that first big drop. Belly full o’ butterflies, savoring the adrenalin rush of each and every track notch up… I can feel my murmurs building to a climactic high pitched “aaaaaahhhhhhhhh!” with every single “clank, rattle, clank, clank, rattle.” Then

tony galluccihttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15098003384579682304noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-11535000.post-1113291105088011232005-04-03T03:31:00.000-05:002005-04-12T02:44:13.303-05:00

Samuel Akiva Pui-Ying Huang SkeistWell, I already had two, might as well make it four, ya know, never be a quitter, stick with what you’re good at. Mom always says, “Just be you.” I smile and nod to appease her concern and inside, I’m like, “yeah mom, I know…but which one?” I’m twenty five years old and my first illusion still aint done. High school drop out turned foreign land language professor

tony galluccihttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15098003384579682304noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-11535000.post-1113291068665195622005-04-03T03:30:00.001-05:002005-04-12T02:45:10.393-05:00

Samuel Akiva Pui-Ying Huang SkeistArt class. Keisha sat across from me. She was always well dressed, quiet-- looked thoughtful. She could have been a model. One day she asked, “What’s your favorite fruit?” “Mangoes”, I said. Mangoes really aren’t my favorite, but apple sounds so boring and I wanted to be different. You know, special or mysterious or something…. “What’s yours?” “Apples. Apples are

tony galluccihttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15098003384579682304noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-11535000.post-1113291040121261572005-04-03T03:30:00.000-05:002005-04-12T02:44:55.306-05:00

Samuel Akiva Pui-Ying Huang SkeistWent out to lunch with my penis the other day. The waitress came over to take our order. When she asked my penis what he wanted to drink he just sat there, staring at her breasts. She cleared her throat, raised her eyebrows and asked again. Finally, he looked up, “Oh, um… coffee… black.” Then, believe it or not, he flashed her a wink. She rolled her eyes and

tony galluccihttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15098003384579682304noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-11535000.post-1113291015577345822005-04-03T03:29:00.001-05:002005-04-12T02:46:48.750-05:00

Samuel Akiva Pui-Ying Huang SkeistWake. Crack the sleepy red eyes. Sweep the sleep from the cracks. I swear, the night’s cold air sleeps in floor cracks and relishes in the chills it sends up my back. I grab my pack out my pant pocket…. I guess that running at daybreak thing will have to wait till tomorrow. I stumble to the bathroom with sunrise creeping through the curtains. The birds have

tony galluccihttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15098003384579682304noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-11535000.post-1113290986023287402005-04-03T03:29:00.000-05:002005-04-12T02:35:26.173-05:00

Samuel Akiva Pui-Ying Huang SkeistBlind tortoise in a rabbit race flipped up side down and baking in the sun. Romantic gesture or morbid amusement to bet all my jade pebbles he’ll finish first? Spend the day on a scavenger hunt for skeleton keys or scribe chalk eulogies in the rain for melted snow angels who knew only one breath of sunshine…it’s all the same. I am child enraptured with fantasy of

tony galluccihttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15098003384579682304noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-11535000.post-1113290943190272602005-04-03T03:27:00.000-05:002005-04-12T02:45:31.683-05:00

Samuel Akiva Pui-Ying Huang Skeisti found sanctuaryin her airthe type of sleepless sleepwhere a lover’s half drowsy murmursbecome your systolei held hercrumbledfell through herfell from myselfi watch her dressshe glowseffortlessgo back to sleepi’ll be back with breakfast

tony galluccihttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15098003384579682304noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-11535000.post-1113289940050780852005-04-02T02:11:00.000-06:002005-04-12T02:45:47.660-05:00

Samuel Akiva Pui-Ying Huang Skeistwhen monkeys take over the earth, i'll be the drunken derelict poet on the outskirts of society selling wrinkled scraps of tapestry soiled by disdainful sonnets inspired by nights of debauchery and my distorted self perceptions. i'll dip my quill in a blood-based medium drawn from my grossly disgruntled grimace -- disfigured by methodical incisions inflicted

tony galluccihttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15098003384579682304noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-11535000.post-1113289892222657762005-04-02T02:10:00.000-06:002005-04-12T02:47:52.836-05:00

Samuel Akiva Pui-Ying Huang Skeistsometimes i like crawling into closets to play with dusty skeletons. i sit, knees pressed to chest, hunch-backed, crouching in the corner's corner sipping salty sentiment from a rusty tinfoil flask. after thorough innebriation, i proceed to stage left and give passersby instructions on how to savagely abuse one's innerchild and distribute manuals on transforming

tony galluccihttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15098003384579682304noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-11535000.post-1113289833749621172005-04-02T02:09:00.000-06:002005-04-12T02:26:46.596-05:00

Samuel Akiva Pui-Ying Huang Skeistin moonlit hours of perpetual introspection i use moonshine mixed with a twist of melancholy to seduce mummified memories. when they lay intoxicated, i steal their finger bones and pick the locks to my subconscious cellars. a black and blue womb birthed this emotional nomad left scavenging for scraps of self-acceptance and dampening my palate with dew drops of

tony galluccihttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15098003384579682304noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-11535000.post-1113289747023111022005-04-02T02:08:00.000-06:002005-04-12T02:47:28.163-05:00

Samuel Akiva Pui-Ying Huang Skeisti am a travelling freak show performer. i nurse cigarette money from depraved displays of self degradation. shackled in chain restraints wih the strength of 1,000 mothers' hurtful words, i mumble a thanks to all the passionate saints, then shuts my eyes and submerge my mind in a murky tank of antisocial cynicism. suspended, breathless, beneath the foggy surface

tony galluccihttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15098003384579682304noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-11535000.post-1113289427259631372005-04-02T01:50:00.000-06:002005-04-12T02:23:08.666-05:00

Samuel Akiva Pui-Ying Huang Skeista tip top education is experience-based and full of hands-on activities. studying before slumbering is frequently recommended as a remarkably effective method to reinforce memory retention. hence, my lessons typically commenced post sunset. in regards to counting and basic addition, manipulatives serve as handy utensiles for the tactile application and animate

tony galluccihttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15098003384579682304noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-11535000.post-1112253361296286602005-03-31T01:12:00.000-06:002005-04-03T06:46:16.903-05:00

"There is no history, only fictions of various degrees of plausibility."- Voltaire"I tell the truth, 'cept when I lie."- Dwight Yoakum"If I lie and say you took me for a friend, patched together in my thin bones,will you help me be cunning and noisy as the wind?"- James Welch"The great enemy of the truth is very often not the lie, deliberate, contrived and dishonest; but the myth, persistent,

tony galluccihttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15098003384579682304noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-11535000.post-1111225400290687842005-03-19T03:42:00.000-06:002005-04-03T01:23:02.340-06:00

times catches ontony gallucciOkay, Okay. It's seven blocks down Sycamore, past Tenth, time is nothing, the air thick with gardenias, why on earth would someone grow those damn things in their yard, one whiff at a wedding is enough to last you until the next wedding, a yard full of that smell intoxicates, the atmosphere a vat of drowning wishes, and drives me out where I should be, the dark

tony galluccihttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15098003384579682304noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-11535000.post-1111225321888686752005-03-19T03:40:00.000-06:002005-03-19T05:45:25.596-06:00

mother ocean, father islandtony gallucciOkay. You never think of this until it's too late. You wade into the surf and dig your toes into the thick sand and feel its layers pulled away and close your eyes and then there's a swallowing and burying and a constant pulling away and you're being yanked to the side and your knees buckle and then you’re sucked out into a giant stumble, flinging out an

tony galluccihttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15098003384579682304noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-11535000.post-1111225193789579892005-03-19T03:38:00.000-06:002005-03-19T05:25:17.126-06:00

louie armstrong of the coloniastony gallucciOkay. Okay. I walked down Sycamore Street after 10 p.m. I should have been in bed. In the comfortable room with the green curtains and the green tiles picked out when we built the comfortable young lawyer's house after the new job in the old hometown after a lifetime away at school and war and school again. Or curled up next to dad on the black

tony galluccihttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15098003384579682304noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-11535000.post-1111225548698533492005-03-10T03:43:00.000-06:002005-03-19T05:38:20.426-06:00

elegy for wendy jane doetony galluccii found out later you were only fouri thought you were much olderi kissed youright there behind the counter at Wal-Mart i kissed youand blew gently air into your lungsand i counted to threeand i looked for the signsand i kissed you againand blew gently air into your lungs and i counted to three and i looked for the signsand i kissed you againWendy, you must

tony galluccihttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15098003384579682304noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-11535000.post-1111229113524689862005-03-02T04:44:00.000-06:002005-03-19T04:51:38.463-06:00

my radiant sintony gallucciOkay. After 10 p.m. Long after 10 p.m., out beyond Sycamore Street. Highway 83 going west, in a midnight blue blur at 148 miles-per-hour, flying over overpasses, skipping, barely controlled touchdowns, blowing west past Pharr, McAllen, Sharyland, Mission, La Joya, Sullivan City, past neon palm trees and still, dark orchards, wafts of 3 a.m. tortillas and donuts, and

tony galluccihttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15098003384579682304noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-11535000.post-1111224934045681532005-03-01T03:34:00.000-06:002005-03-19T09:32:47.766-06:00

the hum of high wirestony gallucciOkay. Okay. 10 p.m. A small plane strums some old symphony over Sycamore Street, the stuff I never listened to. Dade and I laughed about that, the music of planes, the music of katydids in the June noon, the music of rattling cabbage trucks at dawn, the rhythm of pumpjacks and irrigation pumps, the syncopated whine of locusts, the hum of high wires and highways.

tony galluccihttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15098003384579682304noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-11535000.post-1111226068398321482005-02-19T03:53:00.000-06:002005-03-19T05:49:41.733-06:00

sometimes suicide is not enoughtony galluccithis is a confessionnot a poem about poetryi don’t know about youbut i always lied in the confessionalmaybe that’s where stories begini never wanted to confessi distrusted priests before it was en vogueto do sofather might tell my dad“bless me father for i have sinned,it’s been a week since my last confession;i lied to my dad bout smoking,and me and

tony galluccihttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15098003384579682304noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-11535000.post-1111228624429813912005-02-14T04:35:00.000-06:002005-03-19T05:58:33.560-06:00

tony gallucciplaces I have sleptOkay. Two years of 6-degree winters, abandoned schoolhouse floor, sleeping bags in La Selva Lacandona steam, my own cold room, Jackson Hole, Punta Chueca, Dallas, Uxmal, Texas' hottest town, Montana's coldest, six hurricanes, two tornadoes, a womb, four countries, four time zones, three months beginning with J, four ending in -er, one I can't spell, heater humming,

tony galluccihttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15098003384579682304noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-11535000.post-1111229437674929412005-02-12T04:50:00.000-06:002005-03-19T05:39:49.706-06:00

sixteen stonestony gallucciSixteen large, round stonessome would call them bouldersmake a bridge across this creekwhere it slides over moss and reedquickening to white fowm, rollingsplashing riverward, running for seaRage rainstorms counterclockwisein lives that cannot simply riseto gentle breeze, but boil or freezeon thin lips stained by dope and thin liesquickening over roiling surf on a

tony galluccihttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15098003384579682304noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-11535000.post-1111229240675831232005-02-10T04:46:00.000-06:002005-03-19T06:01:30.750-06:00

mrs. timlin’s raintony gallucciOkay. Sycamore Street at Fourth, 10 p.m. It's pouring down the gutter, sounds like a river. Mrs. Timlin sits backlit at the picture window, leans forward as far as fear allows. Sometimes her nose presses to the window. That wheelchair, mean as spit at your feet, allows no more. How many times has it thrown her helpless to the floor? She knows her limits. Bolts flash

tony galluccihttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15098003384579682304noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-11535000.post-1111228699272176572005-02-03T04:37:00.000-06:002005-03-19T06:03:04.036-06:00

dreaming out loudtony gallucciOkay. Okay. It was 10 p.m. I was on Sycamore Street just up from the brick house, still new to us, still new period. Angelina met me there and we ran to 6th, where Andy and Mario waited in that '67 Ford Galaxy, only one in town with an eight-track tape player, waiting, then hurried to get Deb, herself escaping the stifling room-no room of her father smoking and

tony galluccihttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15098003384579682304noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-11535000.post-1111229282677956422005-02-02T04:47:00.000-06:002005-03-19T05:29:29.640-06:00

waiting to delivertony gallucciOkay. Okay. 10 p.m. quiet on Sycamore Street. Long ago the window slid open, the screen easily pushed out, on the road to daydream-not daydream, hope-not hope, wishing, thinking-hard. Over the redwood fence, across the alley, across the whitethorn field to the cutgrass diamond, empty in the all-quiet of midnight, stars and moon and milky way, so far, so soon to the

tony galluccihttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15098003384579682304noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-11535000.post-1111229187087540842005-01-25T04:45:00.000-06:002005-03-19T06:11:41.526-06:00

cats & dogstony gallucciMurdoch slept through all night yips and yawnsof a half dozen bluetick houndsnot-so-country grandboys woke constantly,yipped ourselves across cold Saltillo tile floorsit’s the noise stirs them, grandpa said, mockingbirds,avocados thumping on the hard valley dirt,rustle of leaves, nothing but scaredy-cat old dogsit’s the smell that wakes them up, woke him uphe’d shot a

tony galluccihttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15098003384579682304noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-11535000.post-1111228973336565232005-01-19T04:42:00.000-06:002005-03-19T06:17:10.716-06:00

sweat of asphalt on a july nighttony gallucciOkay, okay. 10 p.m. Sycamore Street sweats on July nights sticky from July days. On the new red and white radio tower, the one you can see from right here, blinking its come-on over and over and over, red-dark-red-dark-red, beyond twinkling brooch Brownsville and the dark yucca-studded flats of Boca Chica, in the high gulf air the smell of dank, dark

tony galluccihttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15098003384579682304noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-11535000.post-1111226134911437042005-01-19T03:54:00.000-06:002005-03-19T06:22:24.683-06:00

deplaning in miamitony gallucciChan K'in peeled fletch from green parrot feathersEdged in blood Wind and circumstance Spit on the cuticlePressed to densewood shaft Wrapped with split vineThe stone black point of his son saying gracias to the touristsYou bought the whole set cheap Confiscated on deplaningIn Miami Smiling your Protecting the rainforest smilethe greed and Corporations don't kill

tony galluccihttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15098003384579682304noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-11535000.post-1111225955197221112005-01-19T03:51:00.000-06:002005-03-19T05:33:54.826-06:00

melissa in the year of nothing else to dotony gallucciIt was youinsisted we do itstanding upconvinced mewet legs wrapped around my hipsarms folding me rosebud around youhot breath on huffing cheeksbitten tonguessweat/cum splatting on the floorsliding two directions at oncewe fell back to the bed exhaustedand smiled sidewaysbut you never wanted it like that againit was ecstasy then, it’s a

tony galluccihttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15098003384579682304noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-11535000.post-1111229026620987742005-01-06T04:43:00.000-06:002005-03-19T06:29:15.893-06:00

fists against the windtony gallucciOkay, Okay. It's 10 p.m. Beulah’s her name, some old aunt from Louisiana you didn't know, only heard of, but now here she is because she left her brawling husband behind in some dingy Lafayette stinkhole bar with a bunch of dusty ducks hanging on the wall no one can even remember who shot them. Now, you'd expect her to be blowing hard about all the nights no

tony galluccihttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15098003384579682304noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-11535000.post-1111228501027647072005-01-05T04:33:00.000-06:002005-03-19T06:35:51.560-06:00

marblestony gallucciOkay. He was my best friend before I knew what best friends were. At five I ‘d moved with my family to this newly built brick house on the edge of town. Like any other place anywhere else, what was edge of town then is no longer -- at seventeen, we moved again, to Houston, moved to the edge of town, to a place now twenty-seven miles inside the metropolis. But back then we had

tony galluccihttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15098003384579682304noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-11535000.post-1111229073247681382005-01-03T04:43:00.000-06:002005-03-19T06:54:17.036-06:00

my hands & everythingtony gallucciOkay. She said my hands were very nice. What on earth? Was it my touch, which I had hardly given her, or how they looked, which she could see, but could not know the times they held lizards from the whitethorn and sunflower field behind the old house on Fourth Street, or the limp carcass of a Spanish dove, dead from the BB's, sad gift from me, or the raw

tony galluccihttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15098003384579682304noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-11535000.post-1111228909746192082005-01-03T04:41:00.000-06:002005-03-19T06:55:56.426-06:00

peripathetictony gallucciOkay. If it weren't for the neon fuzz pulsing in the dawn you might not even conceive a place that had north and south, east and west, hard and soft, cruel and kind. If you had never driven a highway through the frontier, meaning the edge of some kind of nowhere, you might mistake the fog pall for beauty, the benign sort they pin on gallery walls and invite discussion and

tony galluccihttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15098003384579682304noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-11535000.post-1111229395992770902005-01-02T04:49:00.000-06:002005-03-19T07:05:20.936-06:00

solo songtony gallucciyou'd have to have wings to understandforeverseethe trees steal a little skyalong the horizonand corral dreams before they strayout there on that edgelone treestiny and distant in our minds sometimesreminders that beyond the edgesmight be some world worth waiting forbeneath a winter-bare oakwatch it slice the skya jigsaw puzzlesomehow keeping the pieces envelopedbird

tony galluccihttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15098003384579682304noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-11535000.post-1111228802226546352005-01-02T04:39:00.000-06:002005-03-19T07:10:13.603-06:00

what it feels liketony gallucciOkay. Okay. This is what a trance feels like. Standing in a scalding shower with ice cubes between your toes. Whistling sweet little tunes in moonlight. To the moon, singing sweet little tunes that never have been sweeter even though they don't mean anything. Anything at all. Except for you thinking they do. Okay. Let's say this trance is yours alone. Or let's say

tony galluccihttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15098003384579682304noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-11535000.post-1111229349761993032005-01-01T04:48:00.000-06:002005-03-19T07:11:36.146-06:00

praying for something worth praying for tony gallucciYour ashes churned in the river, abandoned the space we gave you. The turtles smelled us and drifted to shore. The way your friends laugh, the noise we brought to gatherings, melted into those boiling sands. We watched children playing, jumping rope, playing tag, chunking rocks, shooting marbles. Circling is just another waiting. We watched the

tony galluccihttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15098003384579682304noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-11535000.post-1111152882627514872004-12-18T10:35:00.000-06:002005-03-19T05:41:26.206-06:00

just testing out getting ready to post old and new rants and things that don't have a home for me elsewhere and wondering where there might be an extra hour or two a day for me to accomplish this as i already don't have enough time to do what has to be done and all, and all, and all, and all that . . .

tony galluccihttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15098003384579682304noreply@blogger.com0