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
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
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
(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
All the beauty
And other tools
To steal the shadows
Back to the poor
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
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
Not the reason Mister
But the instinct should paint
Let it go – like a dog trained for truffles.
I took my trains at night
(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