Poetry from Peter Castaldo and Sean Schmidt

Outside Murdoc’s Door
By Peter Castaldo

Darkness abounds as silent
voice penetrates through
remnants of dead woods.
thoughts locked down
in reverse osmosis.

In anger he rising swift,
shoes scattered staircase.
Objects grew wings, the
walls echoed with
barbaric shrillness.

A god of alternative
realities awoke from
his slumber, screeching.

Quieted myself.

Check out Peter’s blog at http://thingkong.blogspot.com/

By in cars
By Sean Schmidt

the Exchange Rate in schiller park,
at river road, and the nite cap inn,
where a man at the pace stop
holds a styrofoam cup with bad posture

and im driving shoulder to shoulder with the big bus, down irving,
where three men eat tacos in a booth by the window
and two men in a dojo next door do karate

and at kostner and kildare and keeler,
where colorful balloons advertise
a mattress store, then later a car lot

and pretty girls walk wearing pink,
chase muscle cars and tool boxes,
while dark haired girls wear mascara and look hip,
off the train,
and under the expressway,
where bums eye suckers for change

and then studios are stacked above buildings for miles,
and work boots wear like life drags on forever,
and money isn’t made
but traded, 
and no one worries of their own meaninglessness;
and just faces go by in cars.

On work
By Sean Schmidt

Mexican men planting flowers in the morning,
and Im angry and jealous and happy for them,
by the planters boxes out side the Starbucks
with wet mud and water pools,
with the hose left running
and dry dirt beneath their finger tips,
laughing and looking on,
and Im envious and
and walking to work

then later, in the car
Looking left at the red light
to the Chinese car salesman, and his wave
to the Korean man out to a test drive
on the road in the evening;
where I think of the three of us,
and sales and selling,
fake smiles and shoe polish, and that new car smell;
the two and the test drive,
and me at the red light,
while a Lexus ahead, moves out to the weight plate,
and I’m stuck behind Polish women with a cleaning service,
and a bronze mini van;
when a black man cuts diagonal across an opposite lot,
with no car and walking,
to where,
i wonder,
with a fanny pack;
when the light changes

then at night alone
I hear a big train pull from three or four blocks
empty boxcars banging like Campbell’s cans on a string
up to Kenosha, on a Sunday
till its gone and quiet, and I have to listen harder through the window,
for a sound to grab onto,
fearing that without one,
there is nothing but me
and the
Morning Commute.

Take it, Yeah
By Sean Schmidt

I’m a fisherman
out on the waves
You are the big fish pulling me from
the bay
In only a row boat,
I drift out from shore;
For the trust of my fish
I’ve traded my oars.

See Sean’s photography work at http://www.seanmschmidt.com/


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