Two poems ~ poetry by Ben Nardolilli

Pilate’s Dream

Pilate, at bliss with his lead hypnosis,
through it, a hazy trip

in the desert, in his mind, a mirage
where a ghost of myrrh speaks

in languages, in rituals,
“goodbye to earth,” wasting time with bliss,

a vision he does not like,
no more pantheon, a golden triangle

Pilate, sour, mindful
of this spectre, swims by the seashore

up on the waves, a master walks,
not minted, Pilate drowns until he wakes



Rambling over the sand, the data sparse,
all lines point to guilt from an imperial death cult

Reviewing the sturgeons on the shore,
the skyline is violet, bringing bird chants to my ears

Eyes pop, mouths spit out salt water,
the fins flutter in an illusion, their poisoning is real

Whatever I glean, is not currency,
insights mount out of trade, no other mind desires it

Scale and bone separating in the surf,
the greasy bodies roll, the power of the sea goes on

Ben Nardolilli currently lives in New York City. His work has appeared in Perigee Magazine, Red Fez, Danse Macabre, The 22 Magazine, Quail Bell Magazine, Elimae, The Northampton Review, Local Train Magazine, The Minetta Review, and Yes Poetry. He blogs at and is trying to publish his novels.

Show Ben some love via PayPal at Bnardolilli(at)gmail(dot)com.