Spangled with pink

Spangled with pink
by the blue sky's dropping
of fantasy. I'm cornered
like a starved rat
who has been keeping
his eye on the cheese
between my legs.

Spangled by pink
passionate clouds and thighs
divided by wind chimes
condescend
to usher in her love.

It comes in
then out of her

spangled with pink
on the wings of ephemera
caught forever

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poem by Richard Ilnicki
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The hunt for love

By my nature
i am not a hunter.
hunting implies
that killing takes place.
the last thing
i want to do
is to kill something.

is hunting wrong?
not necessarily,
but i think hunting is wrong
for me.
besides, as far as i am concerned
motive makes all the difference.
for example,
i was a hunter once
and didn't even know it.
a certain innocence had taken me
into the snowy woods
one snowy evening.

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poem by Richard Ilnicki
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Nine Pound Sledge

With the kinetic force of a nine pound sledge
she strikes my chest. This sudden blow from nowhere
against my protective ribcage
fractures my thought processes.
It drives innocent nails into the palms of my love
puncturing my heart with splintered chords of hate.
The striated muscles of my limbs go soft; embarrassed,
they become limp, emasculated,
a pathetic atrophied excuse of a man.

Pierced and shocked by this unpleasant surprise
I experience a prolapse and begin to bleed.
My chest heaves in silent opposition
to this forced regurgitation,
and I protest
the vitriole of her ambush.

Deaf to my plea she puts the sledge down
and picks up a Stryker saw,
a saw designed to cut through bone

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poem by Richard Ilnicki
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