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ink italiano

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You’re Italian?

Of course trees give birth to other trees. From their seeds and sacrifice and memories. But a tree has other descendants. Like books. If my great-great grandmother, my bisnonna Tomassa was a tree, then I’m a book. I’m a book that’s all about trees. I have a chapter for “our” history, and another for the taxonomy of identity. Inside of me trees are also poems, and other great mysteries. Like that of the Mediterranean Fig who survived the cold new world. I also include pictures of trees that had fallen down and made the sound of music when I wasn’t around. As an example, there was such a tree that fell in Catania and gave birth to a flute named Frank who could sing the secret song. Now recall the trees of the homeland, their woodwind descendants, down to paper-thin me. It’s a sad thing. How little we retain. How few we remain. I have to apologize. I could go on and on like this. Leaf after page. Just begging to be remembered as part of the forest too.

#spilled prose #prose #italian #immigrants

I Promise Things Will

tables and tides do corners and cloaks can the page must the wheel will you wait for yours others take theirs’ the world forever has a new leaf needs to even a worm could even me on a dime no less

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fille--de--joies

I have seen a burning red link surrounding you. It emanates an energy similar to your raging father's, but that's not it.

I see it coil around you like a spiral, without ever touching you. An air of barbed wire, anger behind masks. Anger towards her or towards himself. There's a certain hold on you. Or a surveillance. There's wariness. Creativity used to quench primal needs. There's action and little self-reflection; it's someone else's fault, or something like that.

A red. An extremely burning red. Incandescent. Somehow hidden behind its own glow, maybe.

drexmwomxn

no one had ever loved me right away

and forever denied this

forever did i seek it in vain

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apoemaday

"These Beautiful Days Have Been My Ruin..."

by Orhan Veli Kanık tr. Nil Kocaoglu

These beautiful days have been my ruin. In this kind of weather, I resigned From my job in the Foundation’s office. In this kind of weather, I got addicted to tobacco. In this kind of weather, I fell in love. I forgot to bring home bread and salt In this kind of day. My addiction to poetry Surged in this kind of weather. These beautiful days have been my ruin.

starswaterairdirt

yama-bato

Escalier

Sam Szafran

SAM SZAFRAN, Escalier anamorphique | Christie's

Who Killed Mufasa

Of course everyone will say It was a crazed mob of interloping antelope! The unruly ravaging rabble who Razed the king’s reign into the ground Of course no one can say who or rather Which of those hundred hooves In the whole hellish heap had done it Some reports start just before the stampede And highlight a dozen eyewitness accounts Which state a gang of foreign predators Had instigated that morning’s melee Of course everyone laments listening to The Song of Simba the sire’s son who needed saving, yet, sadly, our prince perished playing and paying his price, too, deserves no blaming Only rumors survive saying he didn’t And a handful of “sightings” claim that Deliberately deserting his dynasty He, in a delirium, dashed across the Desert dying only some time thereafter His corporal disappearance itself May be the last missing piece To this maddening mystery A few on Pride Rock even whisper bitter Blame directly onto the late king himself Crowning his pride as the cause of his fall Far too fearless and mighty and brave Was he made to evade that dire day’s danger Of course, if you notice, nothing is New in our narrative, and armed Alone with only the obvious answers of How and when and where and why He died that dreary day of doom We soldier on with this sword of a story Of course... the kingdom still stifles with This stinging, malignant, lingering, Little question: just exactly who killed Mufasa?