Wanderlust
Upon purchase of a used copy of Salinger’s
Nine Stories and a quick glance at his
oeuvre on a blank front page, I began
to question if I had read Franny and Zooey
During some pre-millennial year so must,
I believe, have purchased said mystery text,
right? As I, the hero of this narrative,
write, create, more than only peruse
so certain of my engagement, unlike
with that novel of the famous recluse,
when living up in New Hampshire
near the river’s divide with Vermont,
still sought by pilgrims, worshippers,
only the rare fortunate admitted
into the celebrated presence, long august,
so now another reader may not wonder
why I cannot remember if I read the work
in question since my interpolation of northern
New England, no, my own peregrinations
display my tendency of just going on—and off
Rival Faith
For the greater portion of the seven-day
span down at the shore, I determined to stay
salt-clean so kept away from the fresh-water
warm shower in the rental, proclaiming
the purity of mother ocean’s several
times daily cleanse so superior at least
for the duration of bathing trunks and flip-flops
in the middle of July, my brined self
a continual lustration to those marine gods
who would, in return, keep me fresh
and redolent of a tidal line’s tang, warding
off any odor of landward sweat and attendant
earth’s dirt that might have been ground
into my pickled flesh turning to sleek scale
serving me well as I slipped into form
of fish that my housemates of the week did
not appreciate, so at last netted me back to our
bathroom and it’s flowered plastic curtain
behind which rained their idea of ablution
with its terry cloth, shampoo, and soap
that these fishers of supposedly unwashed
men worshipped as the only vanquisher of evil
grit and taint, thus proselytizing successfully
me, the pagan in the foam and surf,
who took sudsy baptism under the tongues
of hot municipal water, reborn to the fragrance
of fresh, deodorized for the clambakes,
corn on the cob of the final three days.
Current Vacuum
For our benefit the fluorescent tube, sleek
and svelte, has deigned to hum and blink
for our benefit, who all need a show in our week
so let the alternation elude the employing powers
the seconds of illumination then less
provide variety in these working hours
that often pass in a bland and uni-tone glare
sinking spirit whose instrument is so much the eye
so enjoy the obsolescence, a job perk, a festive flair
ABOUT THE ARTIST
John Zedolik is an adjunct English professor at Chatham University and Duquesne University in Pittsburgh and has published poems in such journals as Abbey, The Bangalore Review (IND), Commonweal, FreeXpresSion (AUS), Orbis (UK), Paperplates (CAN), Poem, Poetry Salzburg Review (AUT), Third Wednesday, Transom, and in the Pittsburgh Post-Gazette. In 2019, he published his first full-length collection, entitled Salient Points and Sharp Angles (CW Books), which is available through Amazon, and in 2021 he published another collection, When the Spirit Moves Me (Wipf & Stock), which consists of spiritually-themed poems and is also available through Amazon. In 2023 he published his third collection, Mother Mourning (again, available on Amazon). John’s iPhone is his primary poetry notebook, and he hopes his use of technology to craft this ancient art remains fruitful.
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