by Phillip Giambri

My futile attempts
at rearranging the universe,
to suit my perception
of perfection,
only serve to accentuate
the flawed reality
in which I exist.

The world fumbles along
oblivious to my feeble attempts
at control,
yet words continue to tumble
forth from my lips and my pen,
as though trying to maintain the illusion
that I am somehow relevant.

I’m nothing but a loud, flashing,
bright, bolt of lightning,
illuminating a storm-filled sky,
for a very brief moment in time,
disappearing quickly,
and lost to memory forever
by the next brilliant flash.

IMAGE: “The Son of Man” by René Magritte (1964).


ABOUT THE AUTHOR: Phillip Giambri, aka “The Ancient Mariner,” a product of the streets of South Philadelphia, obtained his deviant perspective on life listening to Jean Shepherd on WOR radio back in the ’50s. Fleeing Philly at 17, he served in the military, has been an actor, hairstylist, stoner, janitor, writer, drifter, recording engineer, hired hand, poet, traveling salesman, barfly, banker, biker, bronco buster, announcer, mail-order minister, photographer, and computer guru. He arrived in New York City in ’68, joined the hippie pilgrimage to St. Marks Place, and never left. He’s attended too many schools to mention, studying nearly everything, without ever attaining a degree in anything. He produces and hosts a popular monthly spoken word/poetry event, Rimes of The Ancient Mariner, as well as special collaborative events with other artist/performers — most recently the very successful Barflies & Broken Angels. His website, Ancient Mariner Tales, offers bored web surfers a glimpse into his futile search for self-discovery and meaning. He can be found in downtown NYC, regularly spinning yarns and telling tall tales anywhere that will tolerate him.