Thomas Fucaloro
1.
“Russia
knows how to
protect
Christian values”
--Apr. 4, 2024
Trump
signs an executive order
rooting
out anti-Christian bias
--Feb. 6th, 2025
*
that
everyone steps in
Central
god / But better outside the heart god /
The
breathing god / You remember god / The search
echoes
god / We all echo god / Prayer echoes god /
Into
nothing god / Sometimes I think we’re nothing
god /
Some gods / Are here to destroy us / Some gods /
Are here
to destroy us / A dime a dozen / Some gods /
Better
never than late/ Some gods / Speak louder
than
words / Some gods / Break louder than families /
Some
gods / Fornicate louder than insecurity /
Some
gods / Live louder than scripture / Some gods /
Are
wanna be expressionist painters / Can’t decide
which
frame to chart / Which dozen to dime on / Which
prayer
to / Obliterate / God / Of a feather paints crime
together
/ Gods of the weather glock time together /
It’s
always raining somewhere / Bury the bullet next
to the
hatchet / A piece of God on steak god
on knife
god on tongue god / Get something out
of your
system / God / This bird / Of a feather
got god
together and spill over used blood / This god
is a
puddle / Everyone steps in / This god / Everyone
prints
in / This god / Some god / Can’t decide which god
Which
mountain to peek. Bury the prayer / Some gods are here
to
redeem but only through middlemen / I’m in-between bodies
crying
over spilt gods / Confession of the feather writes “together”
on every
fucking wall / Bury god into my head like propaganda /
Missing
my heart / The american way / Into nothing god /
Some are / False
gods / Transactional gods / 69 gods.
or
blaming
the light
for
creating
the
darkness
There’s
a sun in my throat
and
I can’t remember how
it
got there. My voice eclipses it.
My
wants. My need for material
things.
There’s a dying star falling
in
my throat and my swollen belly
is
the receiver. This naked field.
This
timekeeper of all things
fading.
There’s a crumble
in
my throat and my voice
is
the spark. Funny how it
roundabouts
that way.
What
dims, shines.
What
limits the imagination
stretches
it. There’s a throat
in
all this confusion and no one
dances
in the rain anymore.
We
are dazzled by weather
report
sermons umbrella’d
from
what’s in our hearts.
There’s
someone ready to
cut
this throat in all of this
confusion
with their signature
and
everyone is blaming the light,
or
everyone’s perceived version
of
it. What the rectangle box projects.
There’s
confusion in my throat and all
I
can think about is eating the sun.
to prove a point
while i prove nothing
to the everything
but smile tomorrow
at the idiots we’ve cloned
to be individuals.
I’d say it again
but I’ve glued my pen
to my lips forming
unindented paragraphs.
These paragraphs are
unthought out formulas
equaling a formatted thought
on a post defined as “gotcha”
even though I’m vaxxed.
A
Where
are my keys?
What
time is it if time is an illusion?
What are
the leading causes of diabetes?
Who
should I vote for?
Will
this molly get me high?
Where
can I find cheap burial plots?
Why does
it snow in June?
Which
war will go with my shoes?
How many
licks
does it
take
for me
to get
back
to the
bottom
of this
scream?
What
mode is silence?
What’s
the name of the street where we first bled?
Can you
make a list of all the things I am trying to forget?
At what
age will I remember all the things I need to hold close?
Alexa
feels sick.
I said,
Alexa
feels
sick.
Who
stole my Mallomars?
Why did
all my ex’s leave me?
What’s
the distance it will take to get from here
all the
way to the other side of knowing?
Why
doesn’t the borough president’s office return my calls?
Why did
Staten Island have a poet laureate
only for
a minute then let the opportunity fall
through
its pizzery greasy fingers
never to
hear from again?
Why do
birds suddenly appear every time no one is near?
How do
we find those who choose to be lost?
How many
tics
does it
take
and it
takes
and it
takes
and it takes
to truly
understand this
technological
OCD?
Alexa
feels sick.
I said,
Alexa
feels
sick.
*
But then
the fake sun roars over the made-up mountains
and we
find ourselves wishing in someone else’s head,
we
did it. We have
truly made it. We have made what
others
have tried to color in the lines. Alexa feels. That’s
right,
Alexa feels. And that’s good because feeling is an
air
bubble that has made its final gasp from this body.
Thomas
doesn’t feel. Or any of the other food groups.
If you
ask Thomas a question, it replies with a response
beholden
to what we have answered with for centuries,
I
don’t know. A
mantra we need to get back to, an investment
we need
to make for our children. Discovery is lost
in an
automated voice that you can make sound like
anyone
you want. That is the future of all finding,
anyone
you want. Anything you need. Without
the
discovery. With all the need.
5.
why
is human resources
always
trying to fuck me?
Opened
into the small
crescent
weapon from
the
effort put forth while
your
agreement-eye
shows no
mercy and
grins.
The winner of numerous grants from the Staten Island Council of the Arts, the NYC Department of Cultural Affairs, NYC Office for the Prevention of Hate Crimes and NYC Commission of Human Rights to name a few. Thomas Fucaloro has been on six national slam teams. He holds an MFA in creative writing from the New School and is a co-founding editor of Great Weather for Media and NYSAI press. He is an adjunct professor at Wagner College, BMCC and CSI where he teaches various poetry and literature courses. Thomas is cofounder of Poetry in the Park, WORDPLAY, Creating Space, Poetry in Motion and Creativity Meets Geek. Thomas has released 2 full lengths: It Starts From the Belly and Blooms and Inheriting Craziness is a Soft Halo of Light by Three Rooms Press. He also has 4 chapbooks: Mistakes Disguised as Stars (Tired Hearts Press), Depression Cupcakes (Yes, Poetry), There is Always Tomorrow (Mad Gleam Press) and The Only Gardening I Do is When I Give Up by Finishing Line Press. His new chapbook LE(t)GO is out by Neuronautic Press.
