That’s one, compressing boot grid gray
tangential powder Small step, packed
commissioned paw, Pataskala’s own,
initial print compressing dust.
black orbit bruised foot signature.
For man squash ball one giant leap
Dominion dark for mankind squashed
By silver craft set down he claims
A mozzarella sphere white orb
On top the moon, away in space
Five digits pressed assert a world
Compacting dust the cosmos claimed.
Draping corpses green and yellow,
trees made mimics slog to service.
Teams of green stuff stocked, the young and fed,
tall tilting Oaks and Maples made
mere monuments to brothers peeled.
In tribute sway, to duty sing soft elegies and dirges, glide
lamenting, shading brothers.
Those before them who stand pulpy,
white as castles stark, bare-skinned, aloft:
Gross skeletons of autumn left.
Fraught spiral cores to duty swing
Their premonitions sheared and nude.
The fearful trees to service leaned
brush green leaves down protection, weave
in honor and distraction from
Misfortunes of transitions.
Day labored and indifferent, snack
Five minutes more till dinner, crave
caloric mass my favorite brand
white cheddar curls the purple bag.
Thin coated cheesy digits orange
I grin grease white of cheddar stain,
delicious pinch the powders, I
repair myself in sour cream.
Enmesh me bag, zest barbecue
my place-mat shirt collective shows
one thousand day’s departures, my
historic mask, encrusted shield
Crumb mountain spud of spill base made.
I kill each day, my days for this
Small nibble my misfortunes,
pinch euphoric salt escaping grief
All minor joys come vacuum sealed.
Decision and Dominion
One decade held in pixels, stalled
forced figure locked in motion.
His dominion his decision then
by art of stealing souls preserved
the camera caught The Falling Man.
Though eyes perceive new narratives,
I will not claim to know his thoughts.
That leaping man, I too can see,
as many do, and many will
I too can cast his narrative,
suggestive claim his state of mind.
Yet Falling Man remains unknown.
Refuse my impositions slight
dominion his decision, though
I too will stare, I too can see:
reject my need for knowledge.
For the Falling Man now pixel print
symbolic held one decade framed.
Existence is decision and
dominion I refuse to steal.
Sheared morning bleeds its dull, drawn light
dull razor day’s potential burns,
Just butter on your bagel, dear?
My Wednesday, long in whiskers bows
to haggard, scabby Thursday.
Starve? I’d rather just drink coffee.
Scarves which dangle clinging dust mites,
stacked my chamois mitts two tonal bluffs,
Your chapeau found then lost again,
Enduring fabric drama.
You’ll be hungry, all day starving, pain
from craving pangs inside that box:
The closet coop for lives unlived,
Forever face unsmiling, Pack
me lunch meat, grin my rations munched
I’ll call you when
I break for lunch.
J.W. Mark is a poet living in Sagamore Hills, Ohio. Publications to include his work include "The Ampersand Review," "Eunoia Review," "The Midwest Literary Magazine," "flashquake" and "The North Chicago Review." He is the author of a novel entitled "Artifice" as well as a book of poems entitled "Patched Collective."