By Midnight, Bullfight - by Adam Pomajzl

mornings blush
      with light behind
curtains,
      making sheets
impossible to unwrap-
I assure you,
it's just bedposts,
tossed jackets,
poems on hardwood floors.

so this sunrise
salivates answers
from dashboard notes,
quotes lines
from park benches,
quip conversation
conversely arrogant
while
our divided attention
fell to turning phrases

Scratching Errata - by Adam Pomajzl

      these nights
knifed like felled mistakes,
broken glass kissed with wine.
cry
yourself to sleep
when screams can't bleed
      for lines blotted
to a page,
resting on cracked coffee tables.

watch
this surface of rainwater
      where we've lost
reflections
      in rippled circumstance,
our throats in shards,
our hands shaken,
      just an octave above delirious.

documented event
by its minimal blast,
bookended coddling points
so this maybe is the state
that neither of us
can bare to break.

Sleeping, Waking, Woke - by Adam Pomajzl

       staircase light
outside the
bend of winter reflection,
       sidesteps curled down
frozen slating,
       jostled motion
       from icicles,
hints in subtle
prisms
of melted water,
dripped puddles
in tranced
              (paused)

position.

The Compression Effect - by Adam Pomajzl

blue night shifting
to the flicker of
attic light,
       gritting teeth
in small rooms
like grindstone rotation.

detached from
scratchy hatches of
a pen stroke,
locked with
stainless eyes
of a steel expression,
bleeding knuckles
to the bone,
       vocal cords
strain with
stressed inflection,
       suggestion of
a pounding rain,
in back from a breeze
and whittled down
to tiny pieces
of sweet intrigue.

The Up Side Of A Flip Coin - by Adam Pomajzl

      keep your knees
buried in trenches
fingers dug in earth
in creases
expressions plastered
on this thin space
between we and window-

it's back spasms
that's holding us
up at night.

this day passes
in a withered wash
formulated by
a shelf of books binding back
a choke of tears
a white of knuckles
a furious glare
that snuck up
in the form of a glance
      with first thought,
but shuddered

before blooming.

Thin Pages Of Murky Memory - by Adam Pomajzl

chopblock introspection
      splattered
against
      chipped teeth,
    brush back sour emotion
with an air of stoic grace,
                  feed slowly
on padded answers
      like a thick stroke
of paint.

our experience
      will solidify,
mesh to better patterns
of gray scaled variables,
being locked is what
      made the point
but
when left with scattered life
      we're rung to the rim
and these
swaddling linens
make little difference.

This Suit Never Suited Me - by Adam Pomajzl

all we wore were
late Monday afternoons.
a double on decided
adventure.

sad sorrys and goodbye hugs.

left
with luggage
and
back to the rain.

eventually everywhere.

Tugged To The Earth And Kissing The Ground - by Adam Pomajzl

          when you've screamed to lockjaw,
swollen knuckles from bent backwards
and
torn tendons at terrible confusion—

 

          you're only bleeding because you're free.

Watching You Drown - by Adam Pomajzl

stride for stride,
     this day measured by shadow length.

          did you need a friend?

I can't say that you'd
be safe in here

               with all these
goosebumps
and
tire tracks.

We Are Cosmologists - by Adam Pomajzl

listening
to the simple
dust and air,
breaking isotopes
in front of huge mirrors,
disguised
as humble reflections,
sent by the atom,
succumbing
to gray matter,
finally,

at last.

Whadda Doing, With Your Face Hanging Out Like That? - by Adam Pomajzl

we chugged beer
like it was Easter Mass—

"funny lookin' day, ain't it?"

Wincing And Grateful - by Adam Pomajzl

you think it's madness,
uncontrollable
tangents,
     like desperate offerings.
I feel quite
the opposite,
warm and comfortable
with the illusion.

because

          everything fades
or
runs out eventually,
but
the important thing
is quality,
          substance,
like this
warm cup of boarding house
coffee,
staring out the window,
in
search of something
closer to a payment
     rather
than a solution.

sleep haze conversations.

Woke To What I Wrote - by Adam Pomajzl

unbelievable confusion
from
a purple ball point pen,
                  inky stick

stuck

broke

won't work

under these fast paced conditions.

30 Words Plus Bonus Phrases - by Adam Pomajzl

      did you rise to the
same dew stained morning
      routine stretch
rub eyes
      smack mouth

      wait

and shuffle to bathrooms?

      did you stand
hunched in sleep
to grit teeth
wait for coffee
      as trees outside
the kitchen window
      sway
looking sullen
slack limbs
shoulders
necks
bent in disbelief?

been treading coasts
like sandpaper drawn toast
and so
rose from floors
laid clean with sheets.

it's the same sunlight
and decent dreams
but with heads
hung
      in a half tilt.

$400 For This Painting? Come On,
The Oranges Aren't Even Round! - by Adam Pomajzl

back
         to
back
cigarettes.

but
I
liked the way it looked thru my lens.

Acetylene and Everything After - by Adam Pomajzl

the lack of tragedy
is grinding out your teeth,
picking
you arm bones clean.

but I swear to god,

it's the suspect track lighting
careened off pillowcases
that's
throwing
me
fits.

A Wink Of An Instant - by Adam Pomajzl

we stuck memories
into dusty corners,
     critical response
     in
crystal sunrise
already frozen in stable air.
shuffled
around afterthought
  on bare soles of feet.

surprised to find
uneven levels
     of self identity,
like molded fingerprints
     on porch lit railings,
this morning
pulling apart like
asphalt shingles.

it's all here,
every last picture,
with
dates smudged at
inky margins
of polaroid white.

Experiments That Raised An Eyebrow - by Adam Pomajzl

Joe Spidoni
rocked and swayed
on the davenport,
cocked a look,
mouthed a sentence
and
flickered eyelashes
at the long leg girls
posing in the corner.

Filling Time - by Adam Pomajzl

you drink
and drink
and finally
feel the
urge
to piss

so

the instant
you step up
to
the urinal
you spit—

not
knowing
what to do
with
the extra
two seconds.

Full Point Conclusion - by Adam Pomajzl

go unraveling

                and all the paint left
on the insides of eyelids
never chipped
or fallen away
                but the vision
increasingly
        weak
in not increasing its vision
a punctuation of sound
   at the base of the eardrum
a clink
                of bottles
on bottles
with only sense enough
to peel away labels.

with this time you need,

breakthru.

Go Light With The Punches - by Adam Pomajzl

Marissa pronounced
is a pretty verse.

striking when pondered.

still,
it's tough
to gauge progress
when a scattered everywhere
is
your
only point of reference.

It's Different With Church Bells - by Adam Pomajzl

      psssst-

a hand over the razor,
laughing just for practice.

you
were so prestine
in its glance,
so
bent backwards from fighting

Jack And Bernice Are Making Sense - by Adam Pomajzl

Bernice is gonna
         fall in love
and
that's a grass stain
         she can't feel
         spreading thru denim.
Jack has been thinking
                  about
a
         thoughtful note
penned with
a piece of charcoal
to prove the point;

when I went to digress,
he offered a smile
so wrinkled and sad,
I decided to let things
fall where they may.

another pot of coffee
for the kids
and a
honey glazed doughnut
for me,

please.

Letter To Ryan Bergmann - by Adam Pomajzl

it′s sheets or rains that′s keeping me down, i′m not sure which
one. cuts and bruises. evenings start sincere but end up a flailing
sort of sinister. you can′t see the damage but it′s there, seeping
beneath the skin in a hunch of back — a bloated pulsing infection.

or maybe it′s just pelicans on snowfalls.

today i′m a child, looking for answers in the eastern wisps
of starlight, without controlling blinks it gives back. tossled hair,
a deep seeded need for seclusion. hands in pockets. cigarettes by
streetlights. it's all muddled with the present. mix tapes.
shoebox letters. the curdled scent of perfume and dusty garages.
(mine was a tilted piece of work, paint peeled like caterpillars
that recoil against the staleness of old wood. gasoline.
model cars. pieces of lawnmowers scattered in far corners.
extention cords. my father's hands towering to reach the
portable hood light. he's out fixing the car. again. all this
endless work bookending a week filled with endless work. mom's
in the kitchen. she says it's vitamins.)
it′s all a dilema and this afternoon light is fading. fast.

the border to the public garden is laced with an iron wrought
fence that propells spikes toward heaven. this city is full of
believers. bleeders for faith. 45 days until the first sprout of
green pops up under stars, a blanket of reasonable warm and
we can′t really drink from those stars — it′s all a silent
existence, yet i can feel it drilling into me. i′m woken up. it′s
all time lines and semantics. we split up our space.

Orion is doubtless above all this and casting shadows in clear
cut messages. down the distance a shape moves on the bench and clears
a throat. not much there. social concern. 1964 France. 2003 Boston.
no difference, just time zones. the pond is illuminated by distraction
and a solid surface replaces a gentle wave of memory, easy like picture
postcards. a bleeding innocence. brickwork by Deluca′s. copper trim.
attention, attention. i′m still hiding. behind all the dead elms.
the sleeping willows. it′s night and i'm not quite sure who's
pulling on the lights. attention, attention. i'm painting picture
postcards.

all in all, a search for mirrors.

somehow tonight, i′m impressed by smoke coming off of building
tops. watching silhouettes round corners in living rooms. in slippers
in shoes. robes with initials. cursive. embroidered. well, okay.
i′ve got matchbooks from the last twelve bars, sulphur to their
simple shrugs. to reaction.

so no one move. don't make a sound. no one speak a word.
unless it's about self esteem. if not, everyone just stand still.
just a minute.

just hold the phone.
like being back in the yard, trying to figure out all the noise,
mom′s taking a lot of vitamins these days and it′s avoidable. dad′s
working the kinks out of the car, still not saying much. i love them
both. i can′t stand the cycles, tho. my screams don′t quite
seem to pierce the fluctuating levels of this mess. so i set sail.
whipped up a dream. drove away. almost completely — anything to build).

the Public Alley then was more docile than it is now. By the
State House the alleys are a broken collection of cobblestone curbs
that wind themselves to front doors of shops and
a bar with wooden floor — fireplace in the corner. just a good start
to something. i saw it rain on snowfall today. out the window, just
the tops of heads. tops of hats. neon signs for cameras. the
University housing development and student assistance office. big
front door. brass handles that cast a keen reflection of starlight
onto the keen reflection of moonlight that bounces from the keen way
they built shiny elements into the concrete of Roman pillars that cover
the front of the building. Elliot Smith on the juke box. my choice.
and this corner isn't deep enough, altho i′ve managed to
melt it completely to me, tearing off wooden rim and afixing the
shine of treated wood to the damp and somewhat dislocated appearance
of a hitched up collar and pulled down brim of hat. (yes, hiding
takes more than one disguise.) i'm crying because Elliot is right
and he won't be back
to
sooth
the pain.

with all the parchment filling up fast with ink that′s
shuffled into piles that appear transparent if it wasn't for all the
blotted spots that, when gazed at, form a rustic shade of my face,
enough to squint harder and watch for lines from edges of my mouth.
stretched out backs of arms. these fingers bend so warm. wrists with
quiet strength. cords stand out on my neck, strained to a point. all
these words just to get my attention.

hello, there.

so now we′ve met. crystal shards to widow eyelids.
and all this time
we′ve been playing perception
to distant quotations
you uncovered while
sifting thru beach sands
as we sought to understand
these scars on backs of hands.

i′m tumbling down the lines of cars in Back Bay, heading to
(or coming from; anything′s possible) a bar that can only be secretly
described as silent. no one speaks. drinks in their hands. minds
capsized by strong eyes. not their own. oh, no. and in the distance,
i′m hearing shouts from the muffled ground below instantly surrounded.
drunken footsteps on broken concrete.
mind. what a mess. nothing is clear, just a jumble of words that
rises from floorboards long overdue for sweeping. a smell of
candles. (i used to kiss her bleeding eyes.) those were days spent
clenching fists and rattling eardrums. so here i am, shrinking in a
bar stool. let me out.

goosebumps and noted fingers climbing on icy trails along my back.
still from fear. stiff from freezing. they′re taking promises back.
they′re hurting each other. wait to sleep on it and see the size of
that puddle of regret before mopping.
so light takes its laps, to trace the city and swings it into
circles back and forth from, "i′ve seen bluejays on branches swoop
closer to forgiveness,"
to
"it′s all screams, you're not
accomplishing anything, just a fucking
decible level!"
intermixed with trips to the bathroom. to rerub mascara. to wipe
eyes. to evaluate the sadness on faces. to shake from emotion.
she slams a door.
he sits quietly for her to return.
i swill the last of my beer, swivel off the stool and leave.
what a mess: "Allison, this dialouge has got to stop; you've already
managed to yell yourself into histerics and i′m
running low on patience. listen, calm down and listen...
okay fine, as your are, but i′m not going to stay and
get screamed at for nothing...no, i′m not saying that...
i think we've managed ourselves into a tangent that i
don′t want to be apart of, so fine, go ahead and
yell and stomp and slam doors, goodnight."
(mom and dad have settled down for the night and i can only imagine
that mom is scared for tomorrow to come around and play itself out
just like today did and she knows that they are all all the same because
that′s something she can handle and it keeps her from being too
much involved and dad is sleeping because he is tired and she′s mad at
him for being tired because she needs him to change this whole
thing and he won′t talk about it he's doing all he can and if she
helps out and grows up a bit this whole mess could be cleaned up
and nobody will get hurt but they′ve hurt each other and are both feeling
defensive and upstairs i′m writing all this down and trying to calm
trembling hands that once trembled when i felt the soft outline of
Nicole′s back that warm belly under my hands and i've never felt
that before, she wasn't even my girlfriend, just a hot summer and
loads of conversation before i could even try, the sun is coming
up and my eyes are itchy my nose filled with her scent, the little
bit of perfume she had on earlier has wrinkled itself onto my
shirt my breath short and dreaming, older brother in the other room
little sister in the other room and i′m all out of ears to whisper to
so sitting in the shower with the radio blasting just to feel
different, pain nervous by what i see in the mirror altho i′ve
been looking for one all night and now that i′ve found one the
flushed drunken eyes aren′t offering what i need them to be
offering. oh, no)

dialouge to wipe that smirk off my face.
to peel the color from my cheeks.
to hold hands near mouth to hold back a scream.
and what′s with the hesitation?
and what′s with the posture?
and what′s with the searching out of line, just to prove a point?
whatever it is,
i′ve got to be a little closer to the truth. injured and
injected with emotion. i've been whispering lately.

spooky.

normally, i′m a screamer.

love,

adampomajzl
2.17.04
boston, ma.

Lusty Maneuvers I'm Not Used To - by Adam Pomajzl

I'll borrow time in twilight,
          your body like a phenol,
interrogating streetlights
above shadowed placards,
                    poised in velvet press.

this predawn city.
this hazardous jaunt.

temporary hands
                    welded to reaching.
idle boats landlocked for steeping.
and it blinds me,
     these reckless tides,
     these nights of insulin sleep.

for you, worlds.

for now,
knurled from the waist down.

Melted The Sidewax - by Adam Pomajzl

climbed so high
his nose bled freely
on
paper inked
          with magnificent
handwriting,
pink tickles
     in the hovering silence
that's
articulate for time
          spent
in long smudges of poetry—

another night
     with his head placed
on the soft belly of
daydreams
and
sleep haze conversations.