Self-Conscious About My Ancestry

Wikipedia Poem, No. 635


“Ogni parola / è un gallo che canta all’alba. / Al mattino vedo il tuo volto / teso a strapiombo sulla mia grandezza.” Alda Merini

      permanently debilitated 
     google street 
    view images of acquaviva platani planted 
          soft yellow was much older 
than the 
american the terminal point 
a careful permanant debilitating thought google street 
view images 
  what's really there not
      really modest colonialist influence i 
  spent hours 
   google street view images of instafame 
   foreground holds 
background nisseni no more


After Cellini’s ‘Perseus with the Head of Medusa’

Wikipedia Poem, No. 590

you ever forgive me

silent   i'm not 

know that 
il fiore 

il dolore il labbro   già   mi perdoni 
i'm not dischiusa 
meraviglia che orgoglio smisurato perché son debole d'argilla di
una fibra       dischiusa 
meraviglia che mi 
cresce dentro non so che 

chiama fibra di 
decifrare weak   clay 
but premere il dolore se 
mai tu 
trattiene nellehich   drag

ma in fervide unghie 
del mio tempo
tempo di demonio o 

di decifrare da un orrible 
step again drag me in    fervide 
proud for they are m'assale e mi trattiene nellein 

if you ever forgive me 
devi   i'm not silent   premere 
il fiore


“Seven Aphorisms” by Alda Merini

I am a furious
little bee.

To mistake shit
for chocolate
is the privilege
of the overeducated.

Every man is a friend
to his own

I never speak
when I am not
turned on.

The gun
I point at my head
is called poetry.

Every tibia love its fibula.

Alda Merini
is tired of repeating
that she is crazy.


Translated by Carla Billitteri

Source: FSG Book of Twentieth-Century Italian Poetry: An Anthology. New York: Farrar, Straus & Giroux, 2015. Print. P 493.

“Da Aforismi e Magie” by Alda Merini

Sono una piccola
ape furibonda.

Confondere la merda
con la cioccolata
é un privilegio delle persone
estremamente colte.

Oguno é amino
della sua

Non parlo mai
se non sono

La pistola
che ho puntato alla tempia
si chiama Poesia.

Ogni tibia ama la sua fibula.

Alda Merini
é stanca di ripetere
che é pazza.

Source: FSG Book of Twentieth-Century Italian Poetry: An Anthology. New York: Farrar, Straus & Giroux, 2015. Print. P 492.


Schicchi, Capocchio and Torpedo Girl

Wikipedia Poem, No. 568


Americana in Sunset

“Having failed on two occasions to win the Prix de Rome (1848 and 1849), Bouguereau was hungry for revenge.”

in one show 
the graphic novel enters 
formation with 
the circle one cerchio yoshio sawai-published language

   it is in it is it is it in is it

this botches innocence
innocent humor uses 
        puns the virgil 
        end up ended up one

allies rebels record players
fan formal teen girls beautiful
in the original japanese 
anime fiume flegetonte

Have you ever heard of Piero Manzoni?

“I should like all artists to sell their fingerprints, or else stage competitions to see who can draw the longest line or sell their shit in tins. The fingerprint is the only sign of the personality that can be accepted: if collectors want something intimate, really personal to the artist, there’s the artist’s own shit, that is really his.” Piero Manzoni

Oh, honey… Who can deprive a word of its meaning? Do you claim the words when you arrange them? Do you borrow them? Lease them? Leash them? How do you own them, particularly?

Have you ever heard of Piero Manzoni?

You are a vector. That’s all. I am a vector, too. The second you say something is beautiful, or a poem, or art, it becomes that. It’s that simple. Anything else is violent colonialism. Stricture.

This is what post-modernism is about. And by post-modernism, I just mean a movement projected forever forward into space. Like a light never dying. Sure, you’ll stop perceiving it at some point, but your explication of your perception is just limiting the reality of that object. Those words ever only meant anything to you. What happens to them as they super-ball around the room is exactly as irrelevant and as cosmically important as the words (objectively) and you (also objectively.)

I poop on a plate and present it proudly as art, it’s art. I put your words in a grinder and call it a poem, it’s a poem. Nowadays, it’s all just a matter of will, marketing and polish. Meaning is expressed by how words relate to each other in the reader’s mind, not in the poet’s mind.

We’ve (I’ve) been doing this for years (times infinity) does the practice (product) gain meaning because it’s remembered? Remembered to what extent? To what ends? Because one can quote it? Because it has generational weight? Because it effects policy change? Because it puts one smile on one face for one fleeting moment? Because it locks one professor into her peach tenure track?

Ever wonder why Wittgenstein ended up designing doorknobs?

(I love you, btw, as a person who is interested in poetry. I’m not grumbling here, just twisting my own nipples to get a bit of magma flowing.)

Wikipedia Poem, No. 346


“Power is an educational system that divides us into those who subjugate and those who are subjugated.”  Pier Paolo Pasolini

    led to help his 
         opinion about 
the culture
  era the culture in that 
  the work was 
      opinion about the provincial status of culture in that era 
the work 
was chief editor 
        of poems in that era the cultures 
          had also to helped his opinion about the il 
          the il setaccio the 
         il setaccio the 
   cultures had 
    also to helped his pictures 
had also to 
    rethink his 
      cultures had also been well received the il 
          setaccio the work was chief editor of  
culture in that era 
   il setaccio these 
          experiences led to help 
his opinion of 
   fascist regime a 

Veglia, by Giuseppe Ungaretti



Un’intera nottata
Buttato vicino
A un compagno
Con la sua bocca
Volta al plenilunio
Con la congestione
Delle sue mani
Nel mio silenzio
Ho scritto
Lettere piene d’amore

Non sono mai stato
Attaccato alla vita

Cima Quattro, il 23 dicembre 1915



The whole night
Beside a friend
His mouth
Chewed up
Beside the full moon
Into his hands
My silence
I have written
Love letters

I’d never been
Attached to life

Peak Four, December 23, 1915

translated by Joseph M. Gerace