Tom Pescatore

Wrong turn

whole of diamond 12 flooded

looks like old shore

town of all shore towns

in the gray afternoon

NC two lane road

houses on stilts and dunes crawl to

west side of the tracks

where the brown runoff is

up to the doors and mats

and hellos

vacationers hustle

out of rain in board shorts

and bikinis, watch helpless

as helpless trashcans float

away and pass the cars

going 5 miles an hour south

or north splashing in huge white

waves the cars on the other

side, a great froth-war nobody

acknowledges like they would

a few yards away on bay pontoon

boats and crab fishing adventures

and I couldn’t get my

window up in time

before the next wave, I just wanted to

smell that ocean air and instead

got a mouth full’a Old Abemarle

Highway salt


For you

I saw your city

sink into the muck

of our collective


a monument

to failure,

a laughing joker-sun

brilliantly coal red

in the summer

dying fire–


I marked it down

in my journal

of revelations

to scrawl on the

wall of bone dry hells

of our sometime



I sang a song

that was a lie

so beautiful

as it disappeared

into the horizon



just so you can claim it

as yours,


I’m giving it away—



There was this

old Bodhisattva of the

campground NC night

in Joe Rafsky head lamp

and old torn southern

baseball cap, savior of dying

fires or young blue flames,

young sapling stake of wood

in hand, wrapped in some

indiscernible newspaper of

Buxton, Ocracoke (like the

vegetable and the soda, ya)

Frisco, and bang the fires

going as the thunder creeps

nearer and then he’s gone into

the past or the wandering, looked for

him for 2 days and he wasn’t

nowhere in that place, patron

saint of the mosquito infested



we finished the last piece of

meat as the rain hit harder,

the hiss stronger on the cooling

grill, the steam thicker, coals, gray and sad,

fire, embers and out, we

ran for cover through

puddles that had just found their way

at our feet and closed car doors tight,

out of breath and soaking,


the lightening caught up

and flashed southwest across

the starless skysea


Tom Pescatore grew up outside Philadelphia, he is an active member of the growing underground poetry scene within the city and hopes to spread the word on Philadelphia’s new poets. He maintains a poetry blog: His work has been published in literary magazines both nationally and internationally but he’d rather have them carved on the Walt Whitman bridge or on the sidewalks of Philadelphia’s old Skid Row.

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