Archive for the Anthony Liccione Category

Two Poems by Anthony Liccione

Posted in Anthony Liccione with tags on August 26, 2012 by Scot

full nights moon

i take the trail, to a tailed
foxhole where scared
boys clench their teeth
and weapons
on a bed of dirt and forest
of barbwire fence,
holding the hot handle
in their sweaty hands,

almost like a few summers
back before enlisting,
having their first
sex encounter and
shooting their load
fast in the uncertainty
and awe of a woman’s
curve, body bending
over like a tree,
breasts as red delicious
apples hanging limp
to be licked, bitten, tasted
for death, as young men

wish mum is by side
while the ricochet
of other boys shooting
their bullets at them,
empting their guns
and minds, and ghosts
that cross the night fields
as smoke,

cigarettes are scarce here
and canteens are almost dry,
thoughts come in a
no-promise-home return,
as one is kissing the cross
of his necklace,
watching the words
become a blotch
of blue ink from the rain
spitting and running
on the letter,
his wife wrote him
chewing the fat
of lust,
saying she misses most
of all is their sex.

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Lucky Day by Anthony Liccione

Posted in Anthony Liccione with tags on March 6, 2010 by Scot

on the way to work
caught up in a late
state-of-emergency traffic,
I saw a man running
through the grey morning
a briefcase under one arm,
while using a newspaper
umbrella to cover his head,
from the kneecaps down
below he was drenched
with water,
hopping over puddles
and crushing flowers
with the speed of his heel
in a single-bound,

when suddenly, in fate
thunder sounding as THOU-
he met the finger of God,
blazing white flash cutting
through the sky,
pointing him out and
striking like the last bowling
pin standing, poor guy
I thought, lucky bastard he was,
and I having a chance
to even see this magnificent
once-in-a-life-time event
take place, right before me,

just like that,
it flashed through my mind,
the twenty-six million jackpot
lottery ticket in my visor,
awaiting to be drawn and claimed,
maybe it is my lucky day

or maybe,
looking on from the smoke-hole
of his body,
perhaps it could have
just as well been the Devil
having that old familiar twitch
in his middle finger.