december, cold wind, a neighbor at the window; news of dead on the paper without acquitted or saved, just charon on his black sail, in front of the river-ocean.
there are no faults to share, but only pauses as a price. even if walls fall down, we still think about just our survival, we are not interested in any reason for living anymore.
here is an elementary thought: even children drink radioactive water in iraq, if the depleted uranium of the bombs reached aquifers… and they do not drink it just in the weekdays, but even at christmas and easter, while people of west celebrate with champagne and mineral water.
pero nosotros no podemos mas ser niños. no mas. we cannot be children anymore, definitely.
theology: can you tell me about that phocomelus child who claps his hands? Ou s'agit-il seulement d'un phénomène, comme les disciples du rien ou ceux da la matière pensent? si può “ragionare” su quel battito di mani? est-ce que l'on peut "raisonner" sur ce battement des mains? Is it possible “reasoning” about that handclap?
Franch and Spanish words: translated by Silvia Dello Russo and Olga Milazzo.
As she held scissors, stabbed my chairs,
Left a hole for no good reason cause I
Couldn’t say no, that she is so darling, this
She knows as I blow smoke, and her face was,
And is, unreachable, a kind of moon, a fright,
A graveyard orphan’s tired lament for a kind
Of nakedness she won’t allow, not to me,
Though we tried, my hands on her stomach,
Teeth bared, it was that kind of holocaust,
Afternoon sunlight slanting onto the porch, her
Mug some semblance of calm, I jumped a yard,
Thinking I’d won her at last...
And so the table unfolds before us
Ashtray eye-beams and saucer-eyed sentences,
Coats put on for the chill November wind
That reaches around, a kind of strong-armed
Curse, an anti-benediction, as if some ruddy
Pope put a backwards rhyme on our spoons so
That nothing could ever be born from this tryst,
But a moon-child cast up into the stratosphere,
Without reason for leaving the ground...
My manuscript-in-progress is called The Great Recession (Under the Knife).. It assays the effect the great recession is having on the populace of the United States and Europe, through representing incidents and situations which bear out how entropy manifests in quotidian life. Five poems from The Great Recession are now out in Otoliths. Thanks to editor Mark Young, and NLA (Trove).
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