Poems by Jeff Bagato

A lost message of kings

                  electrical lines choke the sky—
          a buzz of power 
              thrusting wind aside,
                      we hear words only in
                  these signals;
                             a mindless tone keeps asserting
                         its way forward,
            pushing back the air,
                                  the clouds,
                             the sun,
                         until it glows alone
                                     in the new dark of
                              a man-made eye

This Ancient Night

                 wings, post-mortem:
        cul-de-sac of lies—
                        facts lacking oxygen,
                             as in vacuum,
                     as in orbit
                              around a dying
                                    star,
                       as in abyss—
            darkness to the limit
                of eyes—
                         where a jaw feeds
          before one becomes aware
                   of the bite

             can light bind truth?

                      surveillance cameras
            record the tagging of a wall
                                  like the weather,
                         and like the weather,
               the tagging ebbs and
                                  flows, 
                           a force of nature
                                   in letters & design

                                 a night as ancient as this
              takes writing at its word,
                       leaving
                             only bones
                 which it could not
                   consume

Breaking the Gold Mask

                    all my facts & figures
                                 zeroed and lined
                         on one gold chip
             set in a plastic
                   card;
                         identity
               fixed against nature
         until time itself grinds
                            down the foil

                 this erasure 
           sets me free
                   to break once again
         the bonds of self

                  no portrait in electric
                      placeholders
                               can truly hold
                         my name;

               what seems most
         real—the cold fear
                    of unknown wherefores,
            & the joy of running against
                 these streets 
                          of doom

New Bronze Age

                      imaginary alphabet
                             like the one used
                        in Rapa Nui,
                                  some symbol
                          as a blank

                 arrange these oak leaves
                    into a word;
                             the wind
                        blows it into history,
               another vacant
                     name