Basta con le chiacchere
Translated from Italian: “Stop with the idle chatter/nonsense”
dedicated to Dom Dipietriantonio, a.k.a. Dipie : an amazing artist and a friend.-2006
I half hate
all the mythical referencing
because honestly it does nothing
to relieve me of my anguish
or to expedite the coming of much talked about joy.
For a moment, he reminded me of Vulcan,
forging life through his home-made paints.
I was struggling, Phoebus, plucking the lyre,
tightening my stringed contraption to death.
We were both hoping
to snag the owlish eyes of Minerva,
Over there, where she sits on her
erudite grey head all day.
I can’t breathe sometimes.
I cannot pinpoint why I care so much for this thing called clarity?
Ah!—Basta con le chiacchere!
Wednesday, March 14, 2012
Wednesday, February 15, 2012
Tethered
Tethered
Even if the spinning of combustibles
and the silent arms of deep raw space
are created by the very act of my viewing them,
and the silent arms of deep raw space
are created by the very act of my viewing them,
it does not change the fact that I am a tethered being,
not separate from this Nature but folded into It,
like a star folding into the vastness of Its’ own flickering.
like a star folding into the vastness of Its’ own flickering.
Friday, January 27, 2012
Intention I
Intention I
Our laps
are dust laden
with the years
that hope has
helped to drag
us through:
layer after layer of 'the just enough'
and I know everyone loves to love the words:
I hope,
one hopes,
we hope,
but 'Hope' is a mask,
stuck to the face of what is,
sputtering in place,
a temporary salve;
it is a flawed thing,
a temporary salve;
it is a flawed thing,
a slant of cupric light,
inherently weakening
beneath the weight
of its own shimmer,
like a propping up of dreams
on stilts of spinning twine,
unwinding in the clear broad
stare of the conscious mind
and in this dawn of clarity,
my intention is to dislodge
the specter of surface
the specter of surface
at the behest of the only
word that matters; joy.
Wednesday, January 18, 2012
Beauty born in Beauty´s rearranging
-dangling, dangling,
all the bar-room globes of hazing light;
our aging engines, loudly churning,
travelling the distances between the seemingly,
the back and forth, between the black and white.
everything keeps pouring,
foaming, we keep drinking
through the reasons
wrong or right
all is changing or exchanging,
Beauty born in Beauty´s rearranging
-->2006
all the bar-room globes of hazing light;
our aging engines, loudly churning,
travelling the distances between the seemingly,
the back and forth, between the black and white.
everything keeps pouring,
foaming, we keep drinking
through the reasons
wrong or right
all is changing or exchanging,
Beauty born in Beauty´s rearranging
-->2006
My walking parts!
I relay this moment back to myself
so that I will always remember to live in the present,
to feel the pulse of all my walking parts!
so that I will always remember to live in the present,
to feel the pulse of all my walking parts!
La esperanza, siempre
I have shelves
and milk crates
stacked into corners,
storing my books
and my music and
to the side of the bed
the dusty guitar,
slowly dies into
a decoration.
A television
and a stereo
and those mahogany
dressers that remind me
always of my grandparents;
they are long dead now
but I find comfort in
supposing they live on
as some unconscious energy,
swirling in the topsoil and the galaxies.
Across the room
a pair of sneakers, capsized,
floats beside a Spanish dictionary
and 'la esperanza',
my slightest Hope,
goes bobbing up and down
atop a tiny raft of poetry,
with its' "Nineteen Varieties of Gazelle"
and I am pacified by their
assorted stories of family,
fatherhood and figs.
I remember that I’ve have made my own
stories about family or Spanish evenings
and milk crates
stacked into corners,
storing my books
and my music and
to the side of the bed
the dusty guitar,
slowly dies into
a decoration.
A television
and a stereo
and those mahogany
dressers that remind me
always of my grandparents;
they are long dead now
but I find comfort in
supposing they live on
as some unconscious energy,
swirling in the topsoil and the galaxies.
Across the room
a pair of sneakers, capsized,
floats beside a Spanish dictionary
and 'la esperanza',
my slightest Hope,
goes bobbing up and down
atop a tiny raft of poetry,
with its' "Nineteen Varieties of Gazelle"
and I am pacified by their
assorted stories of family,
fatherhood and figs.
I remember that I’ve have made my own
stories about family or Spanish evenings
in bullrings laughing, our beautiful brotherhood
and Papa’s hot polenta on holidays.
Y claro, yo tengo la esperanza, siempre!
Y claro, yo tengo la esperanza, siempre!
Tuesday, December 20, 2011
Robert Frost
A bank is a place where they lend you an umbrella in fair weather and ask for it back when it begins to rain.
Friday, December 9, 2011
Always looking away.
"I am always looking away,. Or again at something after it has given me up."
--Frank O'Hara--
--Frank O'Hara--
Tuesday, November 8, 2011
The Now
"Remember, I told you that ten years ago," my brother said over the phone the other night and of course, I remember, of course, he was right. That doesn't bother me. I am far more in tune with the realization, over time, that advice given to me in the past, that I either ignored out of stubbornness or didn't act upon due to my position of personal growth at the moment of the giving, was often right. There is no shame in learning this later on. I am tired of feeling 'shame' or 'foolishness' or any of these other emotionally taxing reactions to the world around me.
He was right and I was glad to hear it. It means, that even if it took ten years, I realized what it was he had tried to help me realize so long ago, now and there is nothing more powerful than the now.
He was right and I was glad to hear it. It means, that even if it took ten years, I realized what it was he had tried to help me realize so long ago, now and there is nothing more powerful than the now.
Monday, November 7, 2011
Color Theory by Alexandra Teague (from Mortal Geography)
Color Theory
The Home Depot salesman says, "Remember, you won't have to live
with your choice: You'll have to live inside it." I imagine each gradation--unpacking
frying pans and toothbrush; paperbacks strewn
inside Plum Wine, Arctic Lilac, Chiasmic Violet.
On the glossy card they've chained beside the racks
of color, I learn that purple promotes drowsiness and nausea:
not recommended for kitchen or the pilothouse
of boats. Yellow, while energizing, can make one irritable,
unable to blink naturally, too anxious to swallow. Which shade
is it that makes one likely to remember turns
from years-ago samba classes, make perfect hollandaise,
sing like Bernadette Peters? Which color will help me find
my mother's citrine ring (borrowed and lost
in seventh grade) or remember the name of the Australian
band that sand "A Girl", or find the hotel where Klimt awoke
in a light sweat after dreaming The Kiss?
If I paint the living room First Green and the office
Eggshell and Mist, what primordial creatures will hatch
from the doorway clouds, what storm fronts
sweep my bookcases empty? Will my insurance refuse
payment for accidents resulting from color--the Supernova Blue
that caused me to fly kites from second-floor
windows or the Miami Sunburst trimmed with Japonica
that enticed me to juggle butcher knives and pomegranates?
To make things simple, I'd like on color
that will make me want to sing, cry, fuck, write letters
to strangers, wear fishnet stockings, buy irises, walk barefoot,
listen to Coltrane, move out, stay forever,
have children, and understand winter. One can, well stirred.
The Home Depot salesman says, "Remember, you won't have to live
with your choice: You'll have to live inside it." I imagine each gradation--unpacking
frying pans and toothbrush; paperbacks strewn
inside Plum Wine, Arctic Lilac, Chiasmic Violet.
On the glossy card they've chained beside the racks
of color, I learn that purple promotes drowsiness and nausea:
not recommended for kitchen or the pilothouse
of boats. Yellow, while energizing, can make one irritable,
unable to blink naturally, too anxious to swallow. Which shade
is it that makes one likely to remember turns
from years-ago samba classes, make perfect hollandaise,
sing like Bernadette Peters? Which color will help me find
my mother's citrine ring (borrowed and lost
in seventh grade) or remember the name of the Australian
band that sand "A Girl", or find the hotel where Klimt awoke
in a light sweat after dreaming The Kiss?
If I paint the living room First Green and the office
Eggshell and Mist, what primordial creatures will hatch
from the doorway clouds, what storm fronts
sweep my bookcases empty? Will my insurance refuse
payment for accidents resulting from color--the Supernova Blue
that caused me to fly kites from second-floor
windows or the Miami Sunburst trimmed with Japonica
that enticed me to juggle butcher knives and pomegranates?
To make things simple, I'd like on color
that will make me want to sing, cry, fuck, write letters
to strangers, wear fishnet stockings, buy irises, walk barefoot,
listen to Coltrane, move out, stay forever,
have children, and understand winter. One can, well stirred.
Wednesday, October 26, 2011
Accepted for the 'Revisions: A Zine for Writers at Queens College 2011' magazine
To whom it may concern,
It’s funny that you should ask. Sean Gabler, a fellow poet and a friend just wrote a piece in his blog about this very topic. It is a common internal dialogue that I have. One of my brothers asked me this question about a decade or so ago, when I began to really consider myself a poet. “Who do you write for?” and my answer at the time was, “I write for myself, nobody else.” Well, I’m inevitably older now and I am constantly vigilant as to not mistake stubbornness for wisdom. That being said, the answer has changed. Below is a brief list of the 'who' I write for and of course, a little bit of the 'why', as the two can never be separate from each other no matter how much one tries.
The list of who is endless, amassed from the front-lines and trenches of the consciousness as well as the unwavering, churning about of the primordial bisque that is the unconsciousness. As I write poetry, my words are often aimed toward other poets, dead or alive, past and present. I've written sorrowful odes to the sweet, executed Garcia Lorca and hopeful epistolary poem-songs to old Walt ‘I contain multitudes’ Whitman. I’ve formulated rebuttals from the tides, as though I were a spokesman for the sea, to Pablo Neruda, the king of all things weathered, stone and pebble. I've called out to the ghost of Frank O'Hara while in the midst of my very own emergencies and meditations. I’ve sought along my neighborhood streets the sunset drawing down of blinds of mourning for the dear boy soldier poet Wilfred Owen. I wondered about Rilke and the dead he saw, who go about so free of worry, so unlike their reputation. Whether it is John Milton or Stephen Crane, Mrs. Lady Lazarus Sylvia Plath or Louise Gluck, their imaginary approval for my craft is the very skin and sinew around the fingers which moves my pen about the page.
Of course, my own family is a frequent topic, an easy target and an endless source of inspiration. In poems, I’ve made peace with the Italian grandfather I never got to know; whose psychological warfare waged against my father has spilled over onto my brothers and me, so much so that we carry heavily in our hearts the patriarchal refuse of misguided affection. I’ve written so often of my Irish grandmother who I miss dearly. She and I spent many an afternoon together, her, lovingly buttering me up with her famous quiche, her soda bread and the bottomless mugs of root beer only later to put me to work moving furniture, gardening or shoveling snow down that endless length of driveway that I have now been shoveling for 25 years. After a lifetime of repressing her childhood memories of impoverished county Roscommon, in the throes of Alzheimer’s, she told us all the story of her and her brothers being shot at by those British brigands known as the Black and Tans, while hiding in the dreary, damp fields of Ireland’s peat. Some stories should not be forgotten and as my friend Sean Gabler says, “We rescue them and introduce them to anyone who is willing.”
My brothers, oh how often I write with them in mind, for the want of pride, my brothers, who have been unparalleled outlets for my yearnings toward the literary and the arts. What they did, I did, where they went, I went, what they read, I read, true to my role as little brother pain in the ass. Above everyone, I write so that my mother can look at me with that stare that says, “I knew it, I always knew it”, and I know she did.
Places, I write for places as though it were family. I meter out the silent testament of soot, blackening the headless statues of saints in a plaza in Valencia, Spain. I give voice to the bar stool where an American, a New Zealander and a Japanese tourist have taken a moment to indulge in Pilsner, to rest and reflect upon the day’s adventure through the wintry streets of Prague. There is a cold spot on the train station platform in Paris, the Gare d’Austerlitz, where a man laid dead and a few feet away a frantic, desperate spot where his wife fell into her sudden long descent into loneliness. In a New York City subway, where everyone hides in plain sight between their tiny headphones, an attractive woman won’t smile back at me because, well, New York is as hard on single men as it is on women. This city, it brings out the voyeur in me, it brings out wonderment and lust, desire and rage.
I write for things and concepts. I have written to bathroom tiles as though they confidants. I frequently trip the boundaries of the real, to the realm of the inanimate, the fictional, the archetypal; none of which is uncommon or unique to my being here in the world. I’ve tripped up lazy starlight and covered parsecs in the span of a bus ride. Like many, I've accosted the gods and their army of frozen cemetery angels. I’ve mocked Time as it swaggered past me free of empathy. I've praised the honeycomb, and the rotundness of its makers. I've looked for the face of Emily Dickinson among the dots atop a fluttering snowflake. I’ve set the trap for human nature and waited till I burst with longing; I’m still waiting. I’ve professed that the number 11 is the one true representative of infinity and then called it out for the nothing it does for anyone.
What about Love? I write for Love as well. Love, with his unnatural agents, lingering always just out of reach, promising in whispers a future where joy springs eternal. I have written for the eyes of past lovers only and for the moments where we made love on the waterside, exposing our rawest of energies to the bug’s eyes, there, where the warm wind lollygagged through the quiet wood.
When asked, “Who do you write for? Why do you write? Who is your audience?” The old response is no longer true. In my younger years, I think I was scared to admit that I actually have or want an audience. Somehow, I felt it made my work less authentic. I accept the audience, real or imaginary, in fact, I craft the work for them. Time and all its minions have taught me well, so far. Last week, I attended the Queens College New Salon meet and greet for the new US Poet Laureate Philip Levine and he said something that pretty much summed up my current perspective on writing. Professor Nicole Cooley, MFA Director of Creative Writing and Translation here at Queens College, asked him whether or not, and I’m paraphrasing both her question and his response, “we, as poets, have a responsibility to society, the world at large?” He answered, in an adamant, matter of fact manner, “No, we don’t have a responsibility to anyone except ourselves. We must be true to ourselves, not to anyone else. If you want to write about social justice, go for it. If you want to write about the secret life of angels, I don’t care; just do them both to the best of your ability and stay true to yourself.” The activity of writing always released in me what I call the ‘Hope-adrenaline’. No matter how bad things are in my life, when I start to express myself in this medium, something flutters within me, a fresh wind rises up from the deep and only Emily Dickinson, the grandmother of American poetry, has ever gotten as close to pinning the feeling down, with this quote, “Hope is the thing with feathers, that perches in the soul, and sings the tune without words, and never stops at all.” Who do I write for? Why do I write? Okay, final answer: I write for Hope, because I believe in it.
It’s funny that you should ask. Sean Gabler, a fellow poet and a friend just wrote a piece in his blog about this very topic. It is a common internal dialogue that I have. One of my brothers asked me this question about a decade or so ago, when I began to really consider myself a poet. “Who do you write for?” and my answer at the time was, “I write for myself, nobody else.” Well, I’m inevitably older now and I am constantly vigilant as to not mistake stubbornness for wisdom. That being said, the answer has changed. Below is a brief list of the 'who' I write for and of course, a little bit of the 'why', as the two can never be separate from each other no matter how much one tries.
The list of who is endless, amassed from the front-lines and trenches of the consciousness as well as the unwavering, churning about of the primordial bisque that is the unconsciousness. As I write poetry, my words are often aimed toward other poets, dead or alive, past and present. I've written sorrowful odes to the sweet, executed Garcia Lorca and hopeful epistolary poem-songs to old Walt ‘I contain multitudes’ Whitman. I’ve formulated rebuttals from the tides, as though I were a spokesman for the sea, to Pablo Neruda, the king of all things weathered, stone and pebble. I've called out to the ghost of Frank O'Hara while in the midst of my very own emergencies and meditations. I’ve sought along my neighborhood streets the sunset drawing down of blinds of mourning for the dear boy soldier poet Wilfred Owen. I wondered about Rilke and the dead he saw, who go about so free of worry, so unlike their reputation. Whether it is John Milton or Stephen Crane, Mrs. Lady Lazarus Sylvia Plath or Louise Gluck, their imaginary approval for my craft is the very skin and sinew around the fingers which moves my pen about the page.
Of course, my own family is a frequent topic, an easy target and an endless source of inspiration. In poems, I’ve made peace with the Italian grandfather I never got to know; whose psychological warfare waged against my father has spilled over onto my brothers and me, so much so that we carry heavily in our hearts the patriarchal refuse of misguided affection. I’ve written so often of my Irish grandmother who I miss dearly. She and I spent many an afternoon together, her, lovingly buttering me up with her famous quiche, her soda bread and the bottomless mugs of root beer only later to put me to work moving furniture, gardening or shoveling snow down that endless length of driveway that I have now been shoveling for 25 years. After a lifetime of repressing her childhood memories of impoverished county Roscommon, in the throes of Alzheimer’s, she told us all the story of her and her brothers being shot at by those British brigands known as the Black and Tans, while hiding in the dreary, damp fields of Ireland’s peat. Some stories should not be forgotten and as my friend Sean Gabler says, “We rescue them and introduce them to anyone who is willing.”
My brothers, oh how often I write with them in mind, for the want of pride, my brothers, who have been unparalleled outlets for my yearnings toward the literary and the arts. What they did, I did, where they went, I went, what they read, I read, true to my role as little brother pain in the ass. Above everyone, I write so that my mother can look at me with that stare that says, “I knew it, I always knew it”, and I know she did.
Places, I write for places as though it were family. I meter out the silent testament of soot, blackening the headless statues of saints in a plaza in Valencia, Spain. I give voice to the bar stool where an American, a New Zealander and a Japanese tourist have taken a moment to indulge in Pilsner, to rest and reflect upon the day’s adventure through the wintry streets of Prague. There is a cold spot on the train station platform in Paris, the Gare d’Austerlitz, where a man laid dead and a few feet away a frantic, desperate spot where his wife fell into her sudden long descent into loneliness. In a New York City subway, where everyone hides in plain sight between their tiny headphones, an attractive woman won’t smile back at me because, well, New York is as hard on single men as it is on women. This city, it brings out the voyeur in me, it brings out wonderment and lust, desire and rage.
I write for things and concepts. I have written to bathroom tiles as though they confidants. I frequently trip the boundaries of the real, to the realm of the inanimate, the fictional, the archetypal; none of which is uncommon or unique to my being here in the world. I’ve tripped up lazy starlight and covered parsecs in the span of a bus ride. Like many, I've accosted the gods and their army of frozen cemetery angels. I’ve mocked Time as it swaggered past me free of empathy. I've praised the honeycomb, and the rotundness of its makers. I've looked for the face of Emily Dickinson among the dots atop a fluttering snowflake. I’ve set the trap for human nature and waited till I burst with longing; I’m still waiting. I’ve professed that the number 11 is the one true representative of infinity and then called it out for the nothing it does for anyone.
What about Love? I write for Love as well. Love, with his unnatural agents, lingering always just out of reach, promising in whispers a future where joy springs eternal. I have written for the eyes of past lovers only and for the moments where we made love on the waterside, exposing our rawest of energies to the bug’s eyes, there, where the warm wind lollygagged through the quiet wood.
When asked, “Who do you write for? Why do you write? Who is your audience?” The old response is no longer true. In my younger years, I think I was scared to admit that I actually have or want an audience. Somehow, I felt it made my work less authentic. I accept the audience, real or imaginary, in fact, I craft the work for them. Time and all its minions have taught me well, so far. Last week, I attended the Queens College New Salon meet and greet for the new US Poet Laureate Philip Levine and he said something that pretty much summed up my current perspective on writing. Professor Nicole Cooley, MFA Director of Creative Writing and Translation here at Queens College, asked him whether or not, and I’m paraphrasing both her question and his response, “we, as poets, have a responsibility to society, the world at large?” He answered, in an adamant, matter of fact manner, “No, we don’t have a responsibility to anyone except ourselves. We must be true to ourselves, not to anyone else. If you want to write about social justice, go for it. If you want to write about the secret life of angels, I don’t care; just do them both to the best of your ability and stay true to yourself.” The activity of writing always released in me what I call the ‘Hope-adrenaline’. No matter how bad things are in my life, when I start to express myself in this medium, something flutters within me, a fresh wind rises up from the deep and only Emily Dickinson, the grandmother of American poetry, has ever gotten as close to pinning the feeling down, with this quote, “Hope is the thing with feathers, that perches in the soul, and sings the tune without words, and never stops at all.” Who do I write for? Why do I write? Okay, final answer: I write for Hope, because I believe in it.
Tuesday, October 25, 2011
Friday, October 14, 2011
I am not contained between my hat and my boots....
"Do I contradict myself?
Very well then I contradict myself,
(I am large, I contain multitudes.) "
--W.W.
Very well then I contradict myself,
(I am large, I contain multitudes.) "
--W.W.
Wednesday, October 12, 2011
Next year
Next year
The wooden key-chain
is a souvenir that I acquired
from my time in Madrid.
An emblem is branded into one side:
a bear pushes up against the 'madrono',
the strawberry tree,
standing firmly against the darkened grain,
beneath the seven stars of the north,
and the arc of a thin crown.
She said that every time she looks
at pictures of her time in Australia,
she is overwhelmed with sadness;
she promises to herself
to be back within a year.
I have heard those words before,
I have uttered them myself, in my fits of desperation,
when I cannot stand my fellow New Yorkers any longer,
when I am tired of saying what I myself do not believe,
when I am thirsting for one more Spanish night.
Next year I say, perhaps, quizas? Next year.
I am here, in Queens,
and I can't blame all the
'next years' for eluding me.
So many opportunities exist,
while my souvenir quietly hangs
from the zipper on my old blue bag.
Tuesday, September 20, 2011
Neruda announces his dead...
Its the end
of the season and
the clouds huddle near
while Neruda
announces his dead,
the sea stops to hear.
The new poets
align with the old
on the line,
their words
they are ripe
for the change
while the bombs
cluster on and
continue to fall,
the cell phones
explode false blue
light in our face.
And I with the clouds
inform the sea, that she has
been dead for more than an age.
of the season and
the clouds huddle near
while Neruda
announces his dead,
the sea stops to hear.
The new poets
align with the old
on the line,
their words
they are ripe
for the change
while the bombs
cluster on and
continue to fall,
the cell phones
explode false blue
light in our face.
And I with the clouds
inform the sea, that she has
been dead for more than an age.
Friday, September 16, 2011
Tuesday, August 16, 2011
What are you looking at?
a poem-- to New York, from New York
What are you looking at?
I’ve noticed you’ve been staring at me and of course,
behind my severity I adore the attention, but I won’t return the gaze,
well, only for a second, but the look will make you wish you were dead,
and why not, you’ve spit upon my streets, you’ve stained them with old gum,
murder and urine; you’ve hollowed me out with hot metal and traveling things.
You’ve dressed me up in endless layers of deception, advertisements
and corporate agendas and don’t you think for one moment that I haven’t
noticed how you’ve bolted and bridged me together to garner the praise
of your engineering cronies, how you’ve tried so hard to drown out the displaced
and woeful cries of our no income housing with your foodie network channels.
You’ve brought me shit and silver, the gold and the dregs of the world.
You’ve poked me through and through till I bled steam into the night.
You’ve covered my walls with lead and soot, but buffed away the spray painted
voices of the nameless masses, silenced by your appraisals of property value
and I can see you now, staring at me, but I won’t return your gaze because
it’s hard for a city like me to let down her guard and I’ve yet to forgive you for blinding me
with all the goddamned flashing artificiality, strewn across my boulevards and rooftops,
covering these old eyes and disconnecting me from my one true affection;
that handsome pitch black darkness and his dimples of a billion lights.
I cannot forgive you for making his stars and sky irrelevant.
Monday, August 15, 2011
time for new material
I have pretty much officially run out of material....or have rehashed old material to death. I need new poetry,, inspiration, you are welcome to shed your wisdom any time now.... anyday now. we are waiting. Thank you, carry on.
Wednesday, July 27, 2011
Basta con le chiacchere: Artificial
Basta con le chiacchere Part 3: Artificial
1.
We entered the apartment,
where the centerpiece caught my attention,
Stretched across the living-room wall,
where the centerpiece caught my attention,
Stretched across the living-room wall,
in between a chaos,
the unbreakable one-eyed gaze of Christ,
Surrounded by the torn flags and ocher patches,
Bloated with umber spots and smeared
Surrounded by the torn flags and ocher patches,
Bloated with umber spots and smeared
in the bluest blotched-blue sunshine
And there, there above it all,
Ah!—Basta con le chiacchere!
And there, there above it all,
Ah!—Basta con le chiacchere!
2.
He stared for so long at all the colors
That he couldn’t see them anymore,
That he couldn’t see them anymore,
Not via the simpler gestures of just looking
And so he twisted his neck instead, almost to snapping
and bent over into himself, for that upside-down vista
And so he twisted his neck instead, almost to snapping
and bent over into himself, for that upside-down vista
—its there the colors shine again, its there he reconnects with the reconnecting!
—”Do you see them,” he says
The both of us bent sideways, staring hard,
cross-eyed for clearer vision,
“there, there they are! How do they look from this perspective?
Its all about fresh beginnings, with everything in this life”.
“there, there they are! How do they look from this perspective?
Its all about fresh beginnings, with everything in this life”.
I agreed. We toasted to fresh beginnings,
and I convinced myself free of old colors
—fresh beginnings, from traveling to poetry to painting ,
from sagging rooftop angles to sad-blue sidewalk angels—
—“new beginnings and keeping your body happy,” he declared,
grabbing for his bag of baby carrots and a carton of soy milk.
And almost forgetting again to be a friend he turned to me
and said, “yeah, so, what else is new with you…”,
and I thought; Ah! —Basta con le chiacchere!
grabbing for his bag of baby carrots and a carton of soy milk.
And almost forgetting again to be a friend he turned to me
and said, “yeah, so, what else is new with you…”,
and I thought; Ah! —Basta con le chiacchere!
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)