I walk the only road i know
with a face molded in concern
cars pass on my side

behind dark and reflecting
glass
i dont see their expressions
just their labels
and their stickers
NO WAR
they tell me

who am i to them
another pedestrian
out of their way

what a concept
cars.
a box we sit in
while a monstor churns
to get us there
via rubber tires.

why do we bother
to get to point B
if we always return
to point A?

i walk over a hill
it doesnt take any effort,
just a little bend in the knee

the hill goes up a little
and curves to the left

winded hair,
frizzed and damp
in morning mist
my breath heavy,
my skin reddened
i'm warm
as i enter
a conditioned room

i could not
turn on the heat
pick up coffee
on the way
and tie my shoes
before i get there.

i make less money.
so i pay less money.
maybe once in a while
just for a new pair of shoes

i carry a burden
lighter than yours.
mine's only a backpack.
yours is pollution.
oil spills.
accidents.
road maintenance.
toll fees.
gas prices.

i dont have the convenience.
i dont have the time.
i dont have the sense of flying
when its 3 am on an empty highway.

you don't have the pride.
you don't feel the wind.
you don't feel your muscles thanking you
when you've settled down.

By Ana Kochero

You're rough with your guitar,
pouring notes into air
like nails from a bucket.
You know what you'll say,
though words stay buried
in ringing feedback.

Your blurring pick destroys
pretense. You flirt
and slide to crescendo,
jamming down fingers
rough as hooves, reflecting
your patient years.

Smooth wood shines
from the neck caressed.
Around you: silence.
What's more important,
you could ask anyone,
than the mossy tune you hum

each day, the one you hammer
and pull off each day,
finding yourself balanced
between these rapt listeners
and yourself, wrapped
tight in blues?

By Ana Kochero

Each night I walk along the curving shore
behind my house, hands eager to grasp
at small, meandering crabs drawn like war
to thoughts of easy food. They softly rasp
the sand, antennae out, prepared to bore
into small worms, who can't even gasp
as death uncoils under their skins, surprised
and then discarded: used, but not despised.

Held from behind, their claws fail, though they try
to attack, with quick serrated scythes dyed
with blood from past meals. I know that hunger -

I know the way my tongue mimics them, scarred
by my need to gorge until filled with flesh.
With shells like Gothic castles under stars
fading by sunrise, they keep weapons meshed
against skin, ready for siege. It is hard
to understand their lives, each step a fresh
start, hunting the gifts of translucent tides
with goals they cannot know, though glad to ride.

Nightly, crabs spread legs dried by winds that linger,
and shudder free of evening's tired fingers.
They plunge into their depth, freer than I am.

How relentlessly high tide comes and goes!
It brought you to me, and sucked at our toes.
Tonight I see your ghostly reflection

carried on the crests. Love is dissection,
the slicing of the heart's inner chambers.
When they dropped, it left you and I strangers.

My sense is that the light of day is not
for wasting. Even now this beach I cross
peels into ebon rind and pulp, its rot
marking the boundary of time, embossed
by kelp tangles. I still dream, body hot
with memories of the roving touch I lost.
Your wings of rope and canvas steer you out,
leaving me in fog, crusted with my doubts.

Tonight, like every other night, is truce:
the day's soft laurel wreath becomes a noose
draped firm around my neck, its fibers twisting.

By Ana Kochero

I found a small treasure while walking down
a familiar street. Of course I kept it.
This penny's surface was scratched from years of
use: brass gone to green, shade-eye, sunflower
kept ages indoors.

Fortune helps the brave,
you said. I found it that same day we first
tried to kiss. My fingers
clench sweaty fingers, obeying old doubts.
Beneath oxidation glistens
one true face, bright-browed Lincoln,
dignity, worth. Year of my birth.
You came the year after, and twenty-odd
years later, we met. This red purse we share
opened. Together we hoarded pillow-talk.

In my dusty desk, the coin
still jangles, pleading for freedom.
E Pluribus Unum. When spun in place,
pennies land facing the sky.
Our gold is proved by fire, raw hearts smelted
in scent: hay, lavender; spring and autumn
twinned. Proper ante for us. Our bargain is struck.
When tomorrow comes, I hope
we have the grit to pan
for our fortunes, sifting through mud
until we discover the first flash of
a mint-fresh beginning: us,
two keepers of promise, unsullied, bright
as sidewalk change blinking a hopeful eye.

By Ana Kochero

I walked around the corner
where the light in my room shone
upon any wall that laughed with light
and every shadow crying along side of it

That shadow warned me,
and turned into a cold shiver
that ran down my spine
My ears rang in endless screams,
and all I found behind me
was the Laugh of silence.

I cried and shrieked at the presence of nothing
every time I looked back I expected something
my breath was the drum
and only sound
then how come air was all when I turned around?

I paced in my hall to ease the air
my footsteps were distant; someone elseâ??s, I hear
I stopped and heard that rhythm again
the same one that followed my footsteps

I started breathing at that same rhythmic pace
only to have found my sweat drops within a race,
down my cheek and on to the floor.
they sizzled as I panicked and shut the door

the screams came back now even louder than before
and the footsteps took charge in the face of war
all silenced in my ears
and I dared to look back.
I wanted to know
and only feared,
to find the laugh of silence.

By Ana Kochero

Every flake on my skin
Isn't worth the feeling that I'm in
What can I do to make it dry ..out
I try to and,
I close my eyes
I wont let it slip,
no the tears wont' cry
They wont,
roll down my cheek
They will,
evaporate
before they get
to my Trembling lips-
they will,
Be sour to taste
But what I hate
Is that I can't figure..
out
What's my pain
compared to yours
Is it worse than mine
And for that I
pray
For only that I
swear
I'll never let
My tears they wont
Never will they cry
They wont,
roll down my cheek
They will,
evaporate
before they get
to my Trembling lips-
they will,
Be sour to taste
But what I hate
Is that I can't figure..out

Why.
By Ana Kochero

What wakes me some days is the orange peel of the sun, blaring under my lids, fusing into my nerves and leaves me on a high. The stains on your wals remind me of rugged Paris, a beauty in shreds, raped by the constant clawing of the young and the brave. Baby your breathless lips plump up like morning skies, and the same damn orange peels crawl over your bare skin right next to mine, the same days that we lose ourselves. And between those screams baby you whisper; Under your bitter breath you whisper hello, the echo in your anger kisses my cheek, and suddenly, so easily I learn to forgive, the pressure is gone and i don't overflow. Your river is mine, under that same old orange peel of a sun.

By Ana Kochero

You don't shimmer like a mirage.
You shimmer like the heat
before a mirage.

Walking through summer
is wading upstream
in carbon fire.

You don't flee to anywhere
describable. The streets
are longer than day or night.

One event leads
to another. Cars pass.
Roads throw reflections

of roads into the air.
The sun collapses
at its zenith,

while you forget
barked shins, wrists
pressed by dark prints.

Is it really six months
since you last smiled
and meant every tooth?

You see the road
as a swamp inverted,
moaning steam

from its pooled oil,
to pierce the glossed sky.
Concrete kisses sand.

The journey is long.
So is your fuse,
soft boiler, keeping time

with injury and a flask,
spiking grit from your eyes
while waiting for your ride