Now that I have
seen Boniface
In his niche at
Orvieto
Along the solitary
thread of Italy’s
Appennino, of Pasolini’s imagined
Homeland and its
search for the meaning
Of material history,
of Dante’s “serva
Italia,” anyone’s date for a buck…
Now that Edward
Snowden’s
Contribution to
free speech
Has been eclipsed
by dirty
Cartoons (of the
prophet’s anus)
And Nietzsche has
eaten
His own feces in
the absence
Of a living God,
and the best of us
—in this first
world bubble in which I travel—
are only marking
time
‘til things get better,
putting
our faith in
struggles so personal
they are all but
invisible
on the outside—even
in Orvieto
on its tufa-stone
island
high above the floodplain
of the Paglia
like a rudderless
rock lost
in a sea of millennia,
all
its secrets sunk in
caves
hidden beneath the
day-
to-day business of
business…
now that I know
nothing
shows on the
outside, nothing
is real—between the
intention
and the act—I’m
more or less happy
to lay down my
belief
in the concept of
“a future.”
1/8/2015
Orvieto
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