I first met Casimir Wojciech on twitter and was immediately taken by his poetry. He's a third generation Polish-American whose work has been featured at the Library of Congress and in various magazines here and abroad.
He currently resides in the Arizona desert where he works as a contracted painter.
You can find him on Twitter at @caswojciech.
Here are some of his poems:
the day they drained the wishing well
is the day we overthrew father time
from his throne of authority.
there isn't anything else to be said
of moonrakers & their subjects.
otherwise you wouldn't have found me
zoned out on space-time again
face to face with this mountain.
do you remember a time before chain link & iron?
bolt cutters & winches?
red wine & paper cups?
...the cargo of dream bodies
through vanishing daylight
carried
like many glimpses over yr shoulder.
(i became a poet because the night,
wine, women and the eyes always
say it first)
what is more beautiful than
this city at night?
window open, this warm air
purines the parts of the self
hidden from the tongue.
i can sit here with the night, a radio,
a bottle of wine and watch
the stars do what we try.
with dreams: as often as you can without going insane.
if someone should ask about
the mind of this man, tell them
i felt most alive next to rivers
we sweat on bus stop benches discussing
the science of walking mountains and
if we all pray for the same thing at the same time
who gets it first?
the sun is a kenneled hound, just
another star that will explode like a
heart too near to what it cannot take back
time slowly becomes a promise we break
with that piece of the self
we talk to
on the other side
(have we always been these ghosts
blind stepping with javalina
across gravel roads & hungry alleys—
staggered visions scarring
the flesh of desert nights
, a trace of shivering mountains crawling)
cool gardens of momentum
, warm wind gallops by visions of youth
stoke the otherside
our music pouring softly without us
again, will you tell me with six feet of Earth—
silence is drawn like two hearts to each other—
a flooded basement, a sawdust moon,
an empty bus stop across the bridge
temptation & alone
this foray against leaving
it looks like rain in yr hair
poetry is the emptying of the already empty mind
poetry is a prophetic river
poetry is a burning city asking at what bus stop
did yr leaning cathedrals leave their bodies
poetry is the ocean's wave titled upon yr deserted chest
poetry is an IOU from humming birds who forget you are
great at making love
poetry is the aura of yr shoe laces
poetry is the mask of past lives' lovers
telling yr heart to ripple every morning
you awaken within a stranger's skin
poetry is the flippant response to yr own realization
