Poetry » Ben Nardolilli »

The Cartoon Shape

She comes to the balcony
And around the edges
She passes from curves
Into a thin blur.

The jutting towers
Of the house shelter her,
And she rebels by moving
In between them.

The basement’s golden light
Exposes her men playing
Soccer without us,
Using puppets on skewers.

At the foot of the house
I remain sitting in the grass,
Unable to enter inside
This gate of Ishtar.

The evening sky is as blue
As the walls for once,
Now the design in the woods
No longer seems so lonely.

Swinging Into the Branches

They pumped thirty units of bloodlines
Into her, enough to balance out
What was circulating too slow inside,
The leading theory of the leading experts:
Some ancestors to look up to
Might get her moving as a vector again,
If she saw herself as a successor
With some legacy flushed inside of her,
Maybe she would more acutely feel
The sting of failure by just sitting still,
I disagreed, but I was not family,
They were generous enough to let me watch
As the ambitious heme of pirates,
Kings, warriors, fighting priests,
And martyred saints dripped down the needle,
Seasoning her to taste a certain motivation.

Astor Place Morning

Must be sunrise,
That certain slant is between the buildings

If there is anything stale in the air for a moment,
Then every breath is my organic resistance

For now no pamphlets stain the ground,
Only petals casually blown off spring trees

I stop my strolling to strike up for a cotillion,
A slow dance with the buildings and my shadow

We are nicked by the occasional car horn,
But we strike out to embrace every busking note

I laugh at my clumsy concrete partners,
And they cut off the music and metered steps

It is time for the hip guerrillas to break out,
Carrying Yoga mats like guns slung over shoulders.