I like Italy.
Their pizza crust is thin but it’s the best.
I miss the Ufizzi.
But what I envy above all is their language
And a particular word
In art, it’s strong contrasts between light and dark
In an extreme form, Chiaroscuro becomes tenebrism:
Bold and scortching like a violent hot July
(a Lorca July)
Terrible highs and terrible lows,
Almost like a mental disorder but no,
I’m sick of being part of this naïve elite
Feeling so much, feeling so deeply, to either overdress or underdress, to love the cold as one loves the heat, to prance around giddily or mop like a rainy winter’s night.
What a thick consistency they all have
How hard they feel to touch.
She can’t possibly be like that!
She wasn’t scared.
She’d somewhat come to terms with the fact that people would break her in,
like ballerinas do with new pairs of pointe shoes
and as she did from fifteen to eighteen in that narrow studio
where every girl is beautiful and every man is brave
And with tears that would feed armies
she’d eat her own flesh and dream of strength whilst feeling weak, weak, weak
Building walls instead of wrecking them down, trusting unities.
I remember that man who does rounds on the subway every day
No limbs, no nose, no hair, so disfigured and cruelly treated by the world
All he wants is change
I’m free to dream as much as I want
That part of his brain responsible for dreams is missing
But he still feels it around
It hurts and itches and exists but, he can no longer see it or touch it
He is haunted by something he never got to have.
And I, too