Ben Nardolilli
 
Ben Nardolilli is a twenty three year old writer currently living in New York City. His work has appeared in Houston Literary Review, Perigee Magazine, Canopic Jar, and Lachryma: Modern Songs of Lament, Baker’s Dozen, Thieves Jargon, Farmhouse Magazine, Elimae, Poems Niederngasse, The Delmarva Review, Underground Voices Magazine, Heroin Love Songs, Shakespeare’s Monkey Revue, Literary Fever, and Perspectives Magazine. In addition He was the poetry editor for West 10th Magazine at NYU and maintains a blog at mirrorsponge.blogspot.com.
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Three Poems (April 9, 2009. New Pink Moon. Issue 3)
 

Slander Away

Not every dish will have my finger in it.
They know that I have my limits,
As I have five fingers on a hand.

I will try as much as I can
But will never take off my shoes to get in more.

There are destinations and there are occupations,
Each waiting to be occupied.
But I will never be seized
By either wanderlust or the love of sitting down.

Half desperate is the way to go,
One eye open during sleep,
Or tasting out of a single side of my mouth,
It’s either the ball or the chain for me.
 

Off My Penny Farthing

I had not been going as fast as the others,
But still, I had been moving,
Enough to make the world go by
Without noticing all the details,
Stuck in the hazy universals of trees and people.

The inflated circles of space and time
Are flattened now for me,
I leave the machinery behind and stroll
With steps that want to stay heavy
Down on the earth and hate the air.

The others who are still rolling along
Their wheels continue to make progress,
I have stopped and sit alone
Noticing now how much space a table holds
Now there is only one glass on it.

They are laughing, the easy reaction
To life’s details taking flight,
All the lines and stains of shadows
Are under them, obscured by close eyes
And the fine figures of those next to them.

One day I will get moving again,
And the world’s spin will speed up
So that there is not so much to notice,
The colors of the sky, the earth, and the road
Will be all I need to notice until the grave.
 

With More Glories

With the yellow waves rolling
And aiming to hit him,
He turned the street into a raceway

Discarding the weight
Of the blazer
And the bell sounds of his cuffs

Between the white lines
He ran and hopped
On his loafers

There was no number for him
But he had a finish line,
The slope of cement

When he put his oxblood
On the gray ground
He smiled and took notice

His heart was beating
And  every breath
Was a rare commodity

Afraid he would fall apart,
He leaned
On the silver column

But he was still together
With no tire tread on his khakis,
Athlete of the year again.