Rod Peckman

My erotic retreats are lost to me.
My rise stultifies in a refractory
blemish of character assignation.

A reactor pushed a plume
into a blue bottle glass sky,
no deposit no return.

I had a name for this
in the curve of my glottal stop.

An anatomical crosscut
my tongue moved forklike
as I gave my final reading
a sharp eye out for potential

My retreats are lost
and I no longer generate power
though I still let off steam
to keep up appearances.

©2012 This work is the property of the author.


Posted on October 26, 2012, in POETRY, Rod Peckman and tagged , , . Bookmark the permalink. 2 Comments.

  1. The first of three impressive works from Rod Peckman. I enjoyed his mixture of meticulous words and honesty.

  2. A reflection of self awareness of life inside and outside of Rod and a clear lucid voice allows us
    to have an impression of his attentive, subjective and objectivist poetry.

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