Rome
A large shadow is cast over
the generations
marching, keeping order
disorder is the disease
of our time
a disorder of the spirit, of the
mind
a schizophrenic lullaby
a child-like circus
of cynicism and loss of reason
but you stalk the streets in search of
a meaning that no longer means anything.
Rounded up and tortured
eyeless in Nazareth
trashed in Jerusalem
the rape of the sister
by a past ghost
which refuses to fade into history.
And bag lady prophets
hunt for a scrap of dignity
and Bowery bums
hunt for sleep and wine
and Ludlow Street demigods
search for the tattooed messiah
and Rivington Street Girls
dream of orgasms,
a quick but satisfying esape from
the horrors of Rome.
Buddha in the Steppes
shitting on paper plates
handed out among the multitudes.
Jesus lying homeless on Houston Street
empty bottle of wine and a stale piece of bread.
Rome is burning
while we sleep.
and the crucifix on the tenament roof
looms over the next
unsuspecting victim
of the post-modern nightmare.
From "Standing On Lorimer Street Awaiting Crucifixion"
(Alpha Beat Press 1996)
c.1996 Julian Gallo
Kings and Queens and a Generation of Decay
There are kings
there are queens
and there are pawns
who move through life
letting the hands guide them
to be sacrificed
and devoured.
There are bishops
there are knights
and there are rooks
who slide from one
point of their life to
the other, blazing a trail
knocking aside anything in its path.
and as the pawns are collected on either side
no one can hear them weep.
From "Standing On Lorimer Street Awaiting Crucifixion"
(Alpha Beat Press 1996)
c.1996 Julian Gallo
Sinister Sinister
Cigarettes, coffee, these four walls condense----
a trash compactor, anorexic plasma gods
choking on ceiling dust and moth wings.
Sinister sinister
Sinister sister kiss the throat
but leave no marks, please.
My mouth is hungry for your mouth
but I ain't ready to walk just yet.
Fruit flies in cacoons of light
blinding, always blinding
but change is real and always frightening,
even if the flowers never scream
at winter's dawn.
From "The Terror of Your Cunt Is The Beauty Of Your Face"
(Black Spring Press 1999)
c.1999 Julian Gallo
How Obscene That The Good Is Not Recognized
especially in an angel such as you
who walks among the ruins
of landscapes laid to waste
by the fools of the heart.
Who walks among the graveyards
where the tombs of the ignorant
are clearly visible and where the heart
refuses to feel.
Who walks among the fog
that the insipid ones belch
from their blackened lungs.
How obscene it is that
the beautiful is not recognized.
Especially in angels such as you
who cries into pillows
that should rest such a pretty face.
Who's hurt is not deserved
nor should it be tasted by such sweet lips.
Who's pain is ignored by rancid souls
who deserve not the time of day.
How obscene it is that
such beauty is not recognized
by the scavangers of the soul.
For those who do not
understand are truly lost
and it's mystifying to me
how they can't see by looking
into your eyes the wonders
of the universe
you hold there.
From "The Terror of Your Cunt Is The Beauty Of Your Face"
(Black Spring Press 1999)
c.1999 Julian Gallo
Crippled Devil
New York night
let me lose myself inside you.
For I am your child.
For I am your faulty spawn.
Another face, another voice.
Another crippled devil swimming through
your clotted veins.
Don't disappoint me, New York
or I'm liable to do the native thing
and kick your ass.
Just another crippled devil,
forked tongue flicking through
your cataract.
From "Street Gospel Mystical Intellectual Survival Codes"
(Budget Press 2000)
c.2000 Julian Gallo
God
Lying on my bed
in my single room dwelling
staring up at the stucco ceiling,
watching the cat sleep while
I'm counting nothingness;
one tends to feel powerless
in the great scheme of things.
But tonight I just killed a bug
with the spine of a bible
a Jehovah's Witness had given me
and just for a moment,
however brief,
I was as powerful as God.
Sometimes men need such
minor victories.
Back to counting nothingness
as the TV hums in the
darkened room.
From "Street Gospel Mystical Intellectual Survival Codes"
(Budget Press 2000)
c.2000 Julian Gallo
Winter
I am afflicted on these winter nights.
I look inwards at last, contemplating
an autonomy that was supposed to exist
in me. Beginning to walk with that
explosive action, the spear entered
my left side. Turning away, I wept
for myself...
From "Scrape That Violin More Darkly Then Hover Like Smoke In The Air"
(Black Spring Press 2001)
c.2001 Julian Gallo
Opium Theater
I do not condemn the music of words
and all that it brings. I had
asked to be told. I see the dust
sheets. I can look from the outside...
Opium theater----talking films----
a small dark
room
full of pictures.
I have kissed this poem
with burned lips.
Theater of nothing, cinematic apocalypse----
trust in he who will never contradict
the last scene with romantic overtures....
I remain silent, sipping the wind.
From "Scrape That Violin More Darkly Then Hover Like Smoke In The Air"
(Black Spring Press 2001)
c.2001 Julian Gallo
Entre
is the brand name of this small
eraser I have.
I wish I could carry it with me
and rub out this bad performance piece
called life.
I sometimes watch it from the balcony,
desperately trying to make sense of all the
disjointed dialog and non-linear scenes,
wishing I could simply erase it and remake it
in my own way.
But it never works out like that.
Instead we are forced to find meaning
in something that may not have
a meaning at all.
From "Existential Labyrinths"
(Black Spring Press 2003)
c.2003 Julian Gallo
One Late Night
Stretched out like a shadow,
seen only by light
of a lantern peering
through Venetian blinds.
A beautiful, immobile, dark thing
there to create the effect
of a statue carved out of
turbulent silence.
From "Existential Labyrinths"
(Black Spring Press 2003)
c.2003 Julian Gallo
