Room 200

I cut my hair with children’s scissors,
the only blade in the house (which is
a room) all dirty with your morning
orange’s pulp, children scissors with pink
& purple handles, I cut them more
than I wanted – as it always goes
and now I wander about, looking
like a fag version of Modigliani:
shirt properly open I flip flop
through a city all holes, all light,
immune for a while to its double
nature, its serpentine ill nature:
is the one who walks on stolen land
a bit of a thief himself? ID…
I had a friend moving in Piedmont
from Pisa, got nicknamed The Etruscan
(no reggae involved: more a long lost
“virile friendship” sort of thing, maybe
up there calling names glorifies you
instead of putting you down). But I
do not feel etruscan (nor roman)
in this phoenician, hebrew, arab
land; even tuscan feels uneasy:
I’ll try then to be a marchigiano,
counting on the fact that my grandma’s father,
she said, came from those hallowed and shallow grounds.

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Room 199

Is this then life
(not even geneses were dreamt),
soil underfoot, overhead sun?
What is the grass, might then be ask’d
but I shall not be pastoral
as my grass is just shrubbery:
thick weeds growing along a yard,
clovers in a modest garden

                         –

standing there
(Grab the daisy! but I do not move),
I know I’m solid and sound, deathless
– interference in waveform, moiré
on a bubble? Maybe: yet I am time
and matter and my bare feet pillars
& compass;
my spirit needs no vindication
my mother’s shadow’s but a sundial
and grass-spiders crawling all about
the control lights of earth’s intention.

Room 198

 

Room 197

then my heart was taken
& thrown in a casserole
Shroud! said one
and starless a night fell,
a walls & roof sort of night
Transitions
were hoped, & manifold
there in the wooden darkness
(while knocks) while
all knocks stopped

Room 196

is that sound time
roaring in my eyes like a river?
In the neutral stanza everything stops –

Now I have a son:
I’ll show him everything

with words lacking syllabes
from the basket the cut head augurs

τύχη

the man of god has 100 moons & skies,

& suns even]

and no book doctrine;

there shall be no talks of legacy

if all is one:

enter the fire,
become a moth, a moth,
derange yourself, tear down your house –
you’ve got the tomb’s night: acquire
the night of destiny,
become dumb, read from broken bark
in the night of wishes
gyre corona
a Diwali of possibilities

 

Room 195

I’m with the deranged.
Machines run the stakes,
masks were worn &
industrial signs conceived
for things such as tears,
keyholes, pursuances
of the god. There,
Under a white light cone
aptly signaled
by the side, the sade,
the mind legion
scavenging memory
for the right steps, thick
burnt oily footmarks
on the floor, churned black land
behind bristling

Room 194

you could well be wearing a coat of feathers
in that memory – not that gods know,
for gods have well changed & clocked away;
my used car a vessel for times eternal,
summerlong fevers, summ’rlong vision
Is youth just that uncompromising
love for the senses? There maybe you still see
two freaks dancing k-holes in low sun
no time-grasping desire nor skill,
there, in a keen popping of half-litre cans
and your laughs, you, all green-eyed, some sort
of thyroideal beauty, all nerves
drowsed with the fume of poppies, light-blessed & blessed
already with a gift for idealization.