Fall 2008

Table of Contents - Vol. IV, No. 3


Poetry    Translations    Fiction    Essays   

Constantine Pantazonis


blue line

i would chuck it all for your blue eyes
for your thighs against and our feet entwined
your messed up hair on the pillow next
i'd throw my pen out the window
i'd make it a gift to some promising
young fool hellbent for the highway
take it away boys - more power to you
constantine doesn't live here anymore
someone said he went to the west coast
to see the sun take a bath in the sea
and the steam as it hits the water
is something he only dreamed about
in the white space between blue lines


small treasure

i wonder what she is thinking
who she is and what is her story
as she leans against the wall
with the stars above her head
what secrets does she carry within her pockets
that hide her hands like a small treasure
that warm her from the cold and dark
i would like to talk to her hands
to hear what they might say
and clasp them as if they were my own


sheila smiles

should've taken half
but sheila already dropped
and didn't want to travel alone
one hour later
my tongue's trying to figure out
where and how my mouth opens
life was becoming problematic
relative density in flux
raindrop mantras coalesced
through the channels
the sounds between sounds
spaces have their own rhythm
that stretch and bend like
cigarette smoke
spiraling spider strands
sucked through a keyhole vortex
it's a tough room
sheila smiles a wink
and dances with shadow
they are complementary
siamese escher twins
she has gone motif
a meander of repetitive motion
stylized, streamlined
like one of those brucke woodcuts
armlegs metronomic
geometric clockfaced and cubed
like some kandinsky abstraction
where sound and form interface
and all the conventions
all you are comfortable with
the 12 by 15 rectangles you call home
come crashing down around you
like a fistful of pickup stix
and the only thing you're sure of
is you should've taken half


© Constantine Pantazonis



Poetry    Translations    Fiction    Essays   

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