David Pink- From His Book "Another Ghost Enters The Room"- Mr. Pink Reminds Us Of A Frontier Where Poetic Grace Was Once A Cherished Force Of Communication- "A primary goal is emotional and intellectual awakening, a human connectedness"- David Pink

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About My Work: My work is open to various poetries, from those that might be considered formal—making use of conventions such as rhyme and meter—to informal, free-verse. The goal is to mean something without meaning anything. The reader’s interpretation matters, but not to the point that what the author intends doesn’t matter. There must be worthwhile surprises, but not so entirely surprising that they arrive as random and absurd. A primary goal is emotional and intellectual awakening, a human connectedness.

In Museum Shadows

In the dark precincts of the heart I feel you in your prowler car, a 1976 Dodge Polara. In museum shadows from maenad friezes and wintry alabaster Apollos, sight lines run right through us from the brief sun hid behind a stop sign as it goes down.

I never stop thinking about your mouth on me nor mine on you and how difficult it is and isn’t to be an animal: sex as a holiday for humans unwrapped from all their wrapping for some minutes and then back to the old ball game.

In these classical statues the nude women never gasp, and the men’s’ naked genitals are on display primarily in service of the discus or some other sport while the Greek Gods go dizzy trying to get into human pants. And we look and move away thinking yes, that’s just like us.

Around Every Corner

“Have a drink and shut up”— My mother to my father When he was trying to quit drinking And wouldn’t stop talking— About “how hard it was.” She should talk (I thought), Always going on about disasters everywhere: Poor children in India, Asia, South America: entire continents of woe; Wife beating, child molesting, creepy kooks, A bestiality of humanity, A carnival of criminality, An unnatural history of human disasters, And my father staring intently Into his empty glass.

Another Ghost Enters the Room

  While wrens are wrenching on Their love lives, Crows debating Disparate dictionaries,   Tree frogs repeatedly unzipping/ zipping up their love songs, Crooning neighbors’ dogs’ rhythm and bluesing,   And some girl in the American twilight Singing: “God Bless America” while riding her bike, comes back you.   I hear a foreign sound as your ghost enters the room. I’ve seen your tomb. And those of our father and mother,   And all our others. There is a kind of heaven: When ghosts go silent.   But you won’t be finally gone until The last person says/hears/writes/reads Or thinks your name.


Oh, God, you’re dead Just like you said you would be, But I thought you meant eventually, Like all of us. Not suddenly.

You’ve left holes in these days: A series of empty parentheses, Wings without the body of the bird, A thermometer empty of mercury.

I think you quit too early. But what do I know? Go to another show, eat another taco? Nothing was amusing anymore.

And for sure you felt you were doomed, Your pelvic bone cracked From your father’s sexual abuse When you were only four.

You tried to block your bedroom door But, of course, he forced his way in And, year after year, sin upon sin, Your mother beat you for ‘enticing’ him.

How could anyone get over that? How to pull up your bootstraps? How to shut up and put up with your past? How could you possibly last?

You lived as long as you could Because you were a good kid, As the cliché goes: a child at heart, Who felt doomed right from the start.

Now you have released yourself Into the great nothingness That is purely you, No longer afflicted by anyone or anything.

Train Town

Trains plague this town Train Eighty times each day, Mock it nightlong. Folks here know ways

To get around Waiting out one hundred And fifty-one Boxcars clanking. . .

Last week we woke To endless howls When some unknown soul Was cut clean in half.

Mort down at Ralph’s Said, “Drunk deserved it— Dumb, stupid shit.” For five nights, trains

Blast that sad fact Almost endlessly, Making us think Suffering a similar fate

Wouldn’t make this town Mourn, but damn our bones As it loses sleep, Angry all night long,

Train-tortured, Leaping out of bed To curse again The dumb, stupid dead.

First Snow

Snowflake wine tests our tongues – Hint of sea salt and the flash-frozen past, As if cast-upon-the-waters crematorium ash Had been wind-whipped into a column And then been blown past our open mouths Into mourning doves’ questionings.

We hear the doves cry every morning, Calling out and calling out Like someone lamenting a lost love. Makes me remember us In our bed in long ago Manhattan, Rising and falling above each other –

Coming into the future that was coming quick, We made our own weather system – Flakes of skin and snow, Falling through our atmospheres, And when we were inside each other then, A youthful dream of flying.

And the belief that what we were doing Was improbably good, beautiful, pure, Fell through us like the reverse of Icarus: To go down was to rise up, Licking each other like we were Lions loving their young,

The sun rising on our tongues, Naked virgins – so romantic To believe so much in our bodies; To believe that we will always be here. You asked me then, “How do I taste?” And I thought of summer and snow.

By Rich Buckland 05/02/2018 09:46 AM

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