Poems by Casimir Wojciech

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