Sunday, October 20, 2013

Arthur, Dead

Arthur, Dead

Upon this slope of Mt. Etna
a rocky haze of black dust, lust
for life at closing time; sublime,
the baroque gesture beckoned

but trees just grow, regardless.
Every moment, after a certain age,
can either be a consummation or
a capitulation, again, to time.

I’ll never love enough to cover up
this hole Aeolus blew into my loosen-
ed Tooth—I never did make my peace
, either, with the goddess at Erice. I lost

all my emotional equilibrium
and cried and cried and cried and cried
“Don’t beat me anymore, my mommy.”
I’ve learned too many lessons now

to give it up.


Tuesday, October 15, 2013

Catania Collective

The verve of all this black-
ened stone, dormant dome,
o’ cucchiti; lay down

thy vanity, prof.,
thy vanity of the curious
and nervous gesture to play

remembering all this stone
porous, black, and burnt,
an earth that moves through agency:

domus dominion domination,
associations of threat
and assassination, finding freedom

in a collective.
To tell the truth, the Mafia is
a fascist plague in socialist

times, a military ent-
erprise in private hands,

and ticking. I remember:
the ancient city below the street,
two swans, one black and one was white.