I look at you and am
sort of discouraged at the thought of describing
this matter of becoming experienced
the incredulous taste of the many involuntary steps
  the shades of iello tangerine blue

I look at you and sense
my imagination that made itself
thinner over the years and worn,
to skew be yearned and altered, industrial variation of a
  vegetable never otherwise tasted

I look at you and shame
little child alive I have inside, fingers dirty
looking away and shy
  unhealed
who never yields but
   knows nada'll be the same.

-- in picture, above: carrots.

the hand is a wave / the dialog is suppressed in words and a whistle / decency and TV commercial din gets / through the window in the only light: all the idols have a lie left to say / monday the world wakes up / I raise my voice to make clear / that we all are alone, utterly / stalking ourselves in our minds / and follows shame.

a place is a place,
roads lead to its hammered doors,
thru curtains of smell and decaying,
legends of lies, stouts
in the land where rolls of dollars open every door,
or you might be closed in, closed out
brave ads imitating life from every dried wall
failing to consolidate the myth,
because this is not what we wanted,
it's what we're dealing with.

nothing is clear at all,
I've been out here since forever
clear is not love, age is not,
learned: nisba
only it's too late to be innocent and make mistakes
only be evil when you're weak
lie when you're hurt, snitch if you care
and kill not for passion but out of fear
go to bed coi rimorsi stuffed in the pillow
awake the ghosts in the grinding of your teeth
consider the hydraulic erection in the morn
cazzo duro and you're all set
enough longing for a mother's arms, friends who likes you,
not in awe of you--
undress and be undressed
say out loud, my heart beats
glide down over
young cities of quasi innocent people
quasi unnatural, not always devouring
to a quasi window, a quasi view,
a quasi desk were to sit and write
in whatever language you like,
in the place that does not exists
where you hold and listen, no engines no drones
it's them singing fighting making love, and singing again
and you quasi are one of them.

* nisba means nothing where I come from

like when you worry if the cat does not sleep between your legs at night,
that it might be refusing you, not deign of its catty favors
or when you worry to scare out someone if they're waiting
at the elevator when you climb out, so you move a little to the back
to give them time to spot you in the cabin--
or when you're laying in the dentist chair, eyes on the round mirrored lamp,
white ceiling, gurgling aspirator sound coming from your mouth
and you think and you think, why am I trusting this guy, what if he is like
a auto mechanic, who's unscrewing the right bolts to slowly destroy my mouth--
"he keeps finding wrong teeth", you feel old and naive and gullible
and why the help girls are so smiling all the time? what if is it all a scheme--
"they're not really hitting on you", and you feel old and naive and gullible
--open wide, he says
like when everyone keeps looking at you on the streets, men and women need to give a second look at you
as they pass by because you can be really handsome,
clerks chin up want to serve you before the others and you just have to step back
-- and you feel sorry, for every look, for every eye contact
for every imagined brushing against and going by, not stronger and a winner anymore just sorry
like when you're driving and you stop to let someone cross the street
the thing no one does in your city and you clutch the wheel and you pray for
the passerby not to thank you with that white hand with that hurried, scared wave
-- which the passerby invariably does
darkish coat now trotting to the sidewalk isle
like when you're making love and waiting for the moment when your thoughts are carried away
and the thoughts carry you away instead
and when you have the crucial thoughts the last seconds before falling asleep,
the glow of the lamp still burning somewhere next to the bed, dark house
and you are too drowsy to write them down and so you just desperately pray to remember them in the morning
and in the morning they're always gone-- hollow caves of the brain devoured by another vain night
or when you get into the shower and invariably feel sorry for all the water you're going to use, the
soap spread to the dead rivers to the warm seas.

when I walk down the
streets and
it's cold outside,
I have a paper scarf to
wrap my neck with--
all written by fingers of bees
all drawn by drools of slug.
when into the cones of lamplights and moths
the scarf waves about me and I read--
bits of phrases and pictures minute
yet I still have to get
what my paper scarf is about?
is it a story?
is it a classwork note?
is it just about my neck?
what should I do with those lines and dots?
Oh and I know
not the wind nor the cold will rip
my paper scarf--
but my clumsy hands.

sitting at the green
table again, night fallen upon
the falling country
marroquin boy carries away our garbage-- Milan has long spent
its love at 5AM

I am still in chains to the city who says
bury yourself in plane site and do not cry
all the wishes are done with, all loves spent
all clothes are hanging to the wrong wires

heat the steel kettle, pause the droning computer
easy because she also sleeps
di là in this wrong house (her house)

how was Padova? why didn't you come?
quando scopiamo?
I fear for myself --if I see the chains
Yea I cut them hair, Milan said they
were definitely too long.