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versi da non farsi

When Settembre Nero sat on fire the refineries in Muggia
and big clouds of resentment were billowing over the hills
of that sleepy fisherman village
I understood:
technology wasn’t safe because it wasn’t objective or right
and prof. Pastor attached the Science of Construction
in the big assembly in Venice

..Rest your angry heart
no explosions  but kindness
e “fingers like baskets of flowers to be offered”
said Julian Beck
no black clouds full of radiations
but sympathy and understanding
will keep this lot from falling into dust.





​If it wasn't for you garrulous beings

Courageous fellows,
The world will empty out!
The world: a school I should say
Where advances who quickly learns the natural morality.
Hail to Preston, Zeno, Sophia
And whoever else!
And to avoid any  lengthy introduction and dispersion
please tell them they are
the multitude as well as
the singles

(poem in Whitman’s style)



My wife is travelling in the Central Valley

this foggy morning
with Fjodor sleeping on the back seat
a champion of caring,
       a Bodhisattva in action.



I have a plan

To steal
All the beauty
With watercolours
And other tools
To steal the shadows
the harbour
The fences
And then
Recycling them
Back to the poor
(Of perception)
Like Bandito Giuliano
(At least in mom's


Thank you little nuances, I understand the world!

Thank you little nuisances I understand my ego

Thank you little shadows I understand the walls

Thank you little headaches I understand my head

Thank you Leopard I understand history

Thank you precious lama I understand no-thing

what is to be bend
are the rooms full of mildew
the rotten smell, the dust
of empty days, the walnuts
eaten by mice on old beds.
What was left by the dead
are old golden frames
that fall to pieces.
What needs to be bend,
are the days without inspiration.
without any illusion, without money
or friends, the bad thoughts,
the old age...



travelling the big world
or the small world
all the same
will mingle with the people of the world
barefoot and naked
listening to their stories
eating their food,
with Mastro Gianni
and Ser Arturo
on the highway
until the night will wrap us up
... and we'll be gone

Barbara Uehara​​​​​​​​​​
Invited me to sing
When I pass in front of her house
walking the dogs in the early morning
Like my father walking home
drunk in the full moon shine ...
Will I puke in the bathtub too?
Will my wife hold a wet rag on my forehead?
Will the children shiver in fear?


The knife-work of life on us

Is suspended for a moment

And we see the clear sky over

Mount Ka'ala


Not the reason Mister

But the instinct should paint

Let it go – like a dog trained for truffles.

I took my trains at night

to Istambul-

(following with the eyes the traffic

through Serbia and Salonicco)

Crashed double panes with a fist before,

Night was always the best time to run away

Like a dog sniffing truffles

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