Tuesday, July 14, 2015


there are hidden letters after x, y, z
not spoken about
except in the dusty history halls in library whispers
forgotten in the murk of the dark ages
when children would sing-song smiling
through twenty-six friends,
always in order, always tidy
the harmony rose up through the major scale
to resolve softly on the ultimate consonant
before those toddlers’ faces turned grimace
to continue the blackly dirge
past that darkened horizon lay horror
for in those hidden murky corners
rising out of the frozen languages
cloaked in runic and futhark accents
in arabian maqam
and full throated chants to the old gods
scratched into burned margins of scrolls
wretched with rat feces, gypsy oils, fetid ink
are the diminished dirt tones of lost symbols
chanted wild o’er a fire
tattooed tongues through scarred lips
best left to the phrygian dusk
heretical language
strange figures
canted, and then recanted

About Jake Tringali:
Born in Boston. Lived up and down the East Coast, then up and down the West Coast, now back in his home city. Runs rad restaurants. Thrives in a habitat of bars, punk rock shows, and a sprinkling of burlesque performers. Since July 2014, publications include The Manhattanville Review, Oddball Magazine, Rio Grande Review, The Commonline Journal, Apeiron Review, Catch & Release, Boston Poetry Magazine, and others.

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