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Dan Sicoli


Dan Sicoli writes about hope and the fallout that comes from offering it up. Broken guitar strings, blotto neighbors, misplaced Sundays, and those given the bum’s rush often pepper in his work. He’s authored two chapbooks from Pudding House Publications, Pagan Supper and the allegories. He lives just south of the Canadian border in New York.


dear black hole

dear black hole
when food became rare
i was broken
like a moon splash-faced on a rippling lake facade

dear black hole
the menace among us
set loose the locusts
sirens shriek
but we were never
really made to nest

hey black hole
there’s this harvest girl with glittering eyes
hair of icy flames
belly of angelic renaissance
but i’m confused as to how i
should feel about her
she’s flaunts the same tattoo
and lilting laugh
but something’s off and the lighting isn’t right

hey black hole
i heard you invited clouds to corral
a corpse of moon
as a winter procession took to spiral stairs
leaving us with the spawn of soldiers

oh black hole
you’re a universal recluse somewhere
an invisible scar
a speck in my eye
i try rinsing
still you make a home for all dead things
but when i think the girl is pregnant
i wonder what it’s like to be the first voice of jazz

our black hole
please change your mind
let go of the charge
carry us like that floating basket
over a river of cosmic aches

and for christ’s sake black hole
did you have to
make a moment out of this?
you’ll carry that birthmark to the graveyard
you shriveling dimwitted re-animator
we were never meant to kneel

man oh man black hole
if it’s compulsive
if it’s redundant
if it’s a goddamn tide surging
then let it overflow
let it consume
we can take it
our names are shadows
our names lack meaning
set fire to the banshee zeitgeist
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