Room 200

August 10, 2017

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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