"I had many things to write, but I will not with ink and pen write unto thee..."
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MICHAEL A. INTERNICOLA
Cheese Omelet, Home Fries, Bacon on the Side 
		and Rye Toast			

"i'm gonna get some breakfast."-i said, 6 a.m.,
not sleeping on my side of the bed. i did that after
the second time she talked in her sleep, "i'm gonna
kill you."-she mumbled. i laughed, 
 	 then she turned over and fell
back into a dream. i watched the light 
      come up a lot of mornings
but that morning was different. 
      i was too lazy to put my clothes on.she'd 
be
getting up at seven, keep me up till' nine.
so, i turned over and our asses were touching.
i slept like that for the last two years, ass to ass,
and i bet good money your sorry to say you been there before.	
poet: MICHAEL A. INTERNICOLA prose poet: The Seasons poetryREpairs navigation
"Poetry endangers the established order in the soul."
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poet: MICHAEL A. INTERNICOLA poet: prose poet: The Seasons poetryREpairs navigation
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CHARLES L. EAST
The Seasons
			
An awakening comes… a faint movement of life from within as the Earth turns its face towards the Sun. A birth of all things, new and wondrous, that rise in profusion to color and adorn an offering of beauty and glory. Blessed be the Spring… for within its gentle embrace, I am taught… to live. The manacles of Summer subdue and bow the mighty to wilting surrender as though the anvil of the Sun had been struck an oppressive and breathless blow to render the Earth submissive to its will. Blessed be the Summer… for within its tenacious grasp, I am taught… to endure. An insidious change marks the air and rising winds foster gentle persuasion to shed, without restraint, the fullness of a bounteous yesterday. To bare its soul without question to the mighty commands of Fall. Blessed be the Autumn… for within its relentless power, I am taught… to prepare. The Sun at meridian height in all its strength, concedes defeat to the icy mantel of the North, whose rampant winds entice all life to blissful sleep. Blessed be the Winter… for within its harsh magnificence, I am taught… to die.
poet: MICHAEL A. INTERNICOLA poet: prose poet: CHARLES L. EAST poetryREpairs navigation
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poet: MICHAEL A. INTERNICOLA poet: prose poet: The Seasons poetryREpairs navigation