Doing art of any kind has always been a necessity for me, just as writing became at age 35 when I first attempted to write poetry.
After five years I put together my first chap book entitled "Captain Omega" which I only saved a few poems from. Today I've written three more and am currently working on another. Balancing my time between painting, writing, and practicing T'ai Chi is a daily effort that has been very rewarding for me through the years.
After five years I put together my first chap book entitled "Captain Omega" which I only saved a few poems from. Today I've written three more and am currently working on another. Balancing my time between painting, writing, and practicing T'ai Chi is a daily effort that has been very rewarding for me through the years.
Jack Tricarico
January 6, 2007
January 6, 2007
WELCOME THE ALIEN:
Small, frail, East Indian woman
Wheeling her baby carriage
On a tenement sidewalk
Sandwiched between the caved-in stare
Of a Hell's Angel
And my hungrier one
For far away atmospheres
Evident in her delicate, moonwalk step
Oh, poor mother. Oh, poor baby
Everyone eats a little of everyone
In New York City
What we don't eat is our imponderables
That which we can't situate
Or encapsulate or subordinate
Or exasperate or expatriat
Or expropriate or exuviate
Doomsday viruses, interplanetary terrorist
Symptoms of madness that haven't been named
The air produces things
Something starts like a bad rumor
Wherever we lie down
Unity erases us
Divided we still have a face
Small, frail, East Indian woman
Don't walk like the other side
Of a shadow on the other side
Of a wall. Each pore of your skin
Is the door to a laughing abyss
We're in America, you know
Jack TricaricoWheeling her baby carriage
On a tenement sidewalk
Sandwiched between the caved-in stare
Of a Hell's Angel
And my hungrier one
For far away atmospheres
Evident in her delicate, moonwalk step
Oh, poor mother. Oh, poor baby
Everyone eats a little of everyone
In New York City
What we don't eat is our imponderables
That which we can't situate
Or encapsulate or subordinate
Or exasperate or expatriat
Or expropriate or exuviate
Doomsday viruses, interplanetary terrorist
Symptoms of madness that haven't been named
The air produces things
Something starts like a bad rumor
Wherever we lie down
Unity erases us
Divided we still have a face
Small, frail, East Indian woman
Don't walk like the other side
Of a shadow on the other side
Of a wall. Each pore of your skin
Is the door to a laughing abyss
We're in America, you know
A BLIND GIRL'S HANDS AND MINE
Like tendrils
Moving beneath
Clear water
Her hands form
An enclosed sovereignty
In a sunken dimension
That encircles the words
Of men
Like the word "God"
Which she kneads
With soft fists
And the word "myth"
Which she spools
On her thumbs
And the word "fact"
Which she smears
In her palms
And the word "guilt"
Which she clasps
On her wrists
And the word "love"
Which she lifts
With her cup
While the men
Who do not notice
Recede in the chatter
Of their meandering discourse
That fails to unnerve
The impervious waitress
Who waits for our order
Like dust in a vacuum
Compared to my own
The blind girl's hands
Are like the shape of breath
And mine like the hands
Of accomplished assassins
Still
They can paint clouds
With a tar brush
And with fingers embraced
They exchange their regrets
For whatever was left
Undone, unattempted
Or never imagined
From the earliest dawn Of the world
Surrounding the contours Of things
That have the color
Of twilight
And the established composure
Of the blind girl's hands
Like tendrils
Moving beneath
Clear water
Her hands form
An enclosed sovereignty
In a sunken dimension
That encircles the words
Of men
Like the word "God"
Which she kneads
With soft fists
And the word "myth"
Which she spools
On her thumbs
And the word "fact"
Which she smears
In her palms
And the word "guilt"
Which she clasps
On her wrists
And the word "love"
Which she lifts
With her cup
While the men
Who do not notice
Recede in the chatter
Of their meandering discourse
That fails to unnerve
The impervious waitress
Who waits for our order
Like dust in a vacuum
Compared to my own
The blind girl's hands
Are like the shape of breath
And mine like the hands
Of accomplished assassins
Still
They can paint clouds
With a tar brush
And with fingers embraced
They exchange their regrets
For whatever was left
Undone, unattempted
Or never imagined
From the earliest dawn Of the world
Surrounding the contours Of things
That have the color
Of twilight
And the established composure
Of the blind girl's hands
Jack Tricarico
2 comments:
thanx for your appreciative comment of Jack's work...however, in order to reach Jack u will have to contact him by his email address-i'm only the poster & administrator of this site...peace!
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