HiNgE

Adam Fieled

Contributor profile:

Adam Fieled is a poet, playwright, and musician. He has released two albums: "Darkyr Sooner" on mp3.com and "Raw Rainy Fog" on Radio Eris Records. His poems have appeared in American Writing, The Philadelphia Independent, Night Rally, and Cake Train. He is currently finishing a degree in English at the University of Pennsylvania.

Submissions:

•	Hamlet On Pine Street
•	Technician of Tough Love

Other works by this artist:

•	issue 2:4 (literary)
•	issue 4:2 (literary)
•	issue 5:2 (audio)

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Hamlet On Pine Street

A hammered elder took me aside: "Try your skill on each
girl; hone, develop your skill; but prepare yourself for solitude
nonetheless. Never let your eyes linger longer than a minute."
Petty Polonius

left me leeching cigarettes outside Dirty Frank's.
Ophelia, beer-breath'd, bleary-eyed, laid a cadaverous
hand on my lap, plummeted into streams of Scotch-
good night, sweet lady, good night. Leeches

lingered on our exit; jealous teeth, yellowed of nicotine.
Gentle Rosencrantz tried to turn a trick; Guildenstern
did a monkey-dance. The reign of despair

consolidated itself with the arrival of battered
Gertrude. The night wasted away; my fortunes
waned outrageously.

Technician of Tough Love

Puzzling your way back to nothingness
you must be; if the Void is an abyss,
to conquer it in life is impossible.
There is a blessing in ritual,
but it is all on this side.

Your private treasures I never knew;
beyond the Indian drums (of which you had
a collection), was there something,
some book, some record, you prized
above all others?

You were a technician of tough love,
collected hearts; had a passion
for Chinese herbs boiled down
to the root, to retrieve essential,
healing strength;

ministered weary angels
needing succor, familiar w/ your tongue,
your breath, the beating of your heart.
Saintly, to feed some soul's need
for flesh, nectar, sanctuary,
oblivion;

now its death's mystery
from which you can't escape-
maybe. I profess & confess
utter bewilderment.

Remember lunches
at Essene, 4th Street, the crutch
of good caffeinated coffee, conversation,
a few hours rest; was eternity
there, watching you, waiting silently
to bear naked flanks
to your moribund pleasure?
Who can tell what world
will fit a restless spirit well?