So Peter, You're a Pirate now

Thomas Kwiatkowski


Planks and rapiers, masts and cabins,

built from stone and brick, of mule and diamond

from the hands of mammoths and massifs,

through the tears of railroads and mountains,

the fears of forests and rivers, this ship that glides

through the heavens hold no bounds upon the clouds.

Alone it sleeps, that single ship slips across

the horizon, far from view, as a lonely man

cries on top of little mounds of white fluff

formed from marshmallow and down.

The golden marble of the ledge is scratched

with talons and fingerprints, and a man

sits by himself, throwing out a handful of dust

of meat to the hawks with heavy heads and large black wings

hovering in circles, glistening the tears of man with

their own tears.


No longer does the silver sun shine in the hallow sky

with traffic lights blinking on, but never off.

The once wide and open sky hovers through the

smog and fog of machines and dreams, created

by man's once epic and noble desire to scour

the heavens with nothing more than a telescope

and a pen/paper.


Maps are useless, games forgotten, toss over the ledge

with the meat and the marbles, over to the sea

deep and into the stomach. Create the dream once more

and leave alone the parrot, purple and dark,

wise and apart from the rest sits the treasure of the game,

followed and through the dream is the mark of the man,

a hand lies in the grim of the day, past the morning,

thorugh the stars and cars that run amok

streaks of blue and silver, red and gold, black and yellow,

green, all colors float through the marked sea of modern times,

with no thought to the morning.


Left alone, his wingless dreams, fall to the concrete

with the meat and the marbles. No hawks to catch him

no dust in the air, no trail to find, no second morning,

no starlight to guide, nothing is left within the air,

and now, all the leaves fall to the ground.

Euphemism Campus Box 4240 Illinois State University, Normal, IL 61790-4240