The Works of Jason Petrochko
Jason Petrochko is a Pennsylvania writer with a master’s degree in English, a degree that he is certain disqualifies him somehow from joining the ranks of truly creative writers. By day, he can be found chained to a cubicle, face illuminated by the white glow of a computer screen, squinting his way through technical writing projects. He has previously presented some scholarly research in Pennsylvania and Utah, but is just now beginning to apprehensively share some of his poetry with the world.
All Poems © Jason Petrochko
It Cannot Hold
It cannot hold.
This fragmented drive
of lazy attention
that wanders like a gum wrapper
in an empty parking lot
only to catch flame,
burning white hot then fizzling in a moment.
With the bang-bang music in our ears,
the glitz-glam images in our faces,
with our heads always on vibrate,
it simply cannot hold.
Lines Never Touching
To be an ancillary thought
in a world of big ideas.
One of many dotted, perpendicular lines
intersected by solid, parallel lines
running through the empty spaces
becoming a grid of hurdles
not overcome - just passed.
Lines never touching
with small spaces between
that become canyons of apathy.
I like the fresh, flat surface
of a soul saving snow.
The world looks new again,
untouched and unspoiled by our trampling feet.
I try to be the first to ease my print into it,
but restrain myself as long as I can.
I listen as it whispers in acquiescence to me,
only sometimes encountering a subtle cat’s paw
who beat me to the trail,
but I’m able to trace my steps and
know they were all well-placed.
There’s been no snow this year,
and this valley is beginning to feel old,
full of zigzagging trails traveled by
the same worn out spirits ceaselessly creating circles
like ruts in an aging man’s face -
or stains or scars or soars.
This season-less year has made my disquiet more stark,
my unrest more pronounced,
and my restrained grumbles audible.
Thankfully, the days are so much shorter
so I only have to see it for a brief time.
I even miss the cold as it used to stir me.
Now, I wander groggily through this January,
more asleep than awake,
unsteady, shaky, and weak.
Yesterday morning, I heard the birds of spring singing out of turn,
and it was discordant to my ears.
By the time they are supposed to sing,
I will be weary of their tuneful melodies.