Paul Lojeski was born and raised in Lakewood, Ohio. His poetry has appeared online and in print. He lives in Port Jefferson, NY.
Back then the wind called anything
possible sang my name, so I joined
the crew moving fast, fighting to get
anyplace new. Never thought the wind
would lie but so things happened, lost
in a country of lost delusions, betrayed
by the road, tricked by desires, emotions,
the bottle, coke and the worst drug
of all: rage. Beware, friend. Beware.
drug ad with death
on screen soft glowing representations of golden American
families barbecuing in the backyard, tossing balls in parks,
riding bikes on country roads, seniors walking beaches,
holding withered hands, big, gleaming smiles bright like
lighthouses glowing in dark storms or grand picnics
crowded with waves of laughter, as each medicine hails
its healing possibilities, while at the bottom of the screen
in tiny font crawling like scorpions under all that joy lists
of possible side effects: the demons of manufactured hope
rushed to market for fast, hot cash: Exocabala might cause
itching rashes, vigorous full-body shaking, slurred speech
or even, yes, death; Domistam can produce one-eye blindness,
serious constipation, sweats like rain storms and, yes,
occasionally, maybe, once in a while, you know, death.
Death, death and more death. Ask your doctor about it.
by my father in that gloomy cancer hospital.
a guy on the organ out in the hallway,
caressing the keys, playing the kind of tunes
heard at skating rinks or between innings at
ball games: bright, soothing melodies, happy
songs. All around the cheery sounds were
rooms packed with death. the weird scene
gave me the sweats and then I heard death
tapping its toes and snapping its fingers to
each tune, while my father, like the others,
missed the whole thing, mumbling, wandering
morphine fogs. So only death and I were
paying any attention to the organ man's
schmaltzy solos. Just the two of us, dancing
sweet and slow to the final beat.