Arthur, Dead

Arthur, Dead

Upon this slope of Mt. Etna

a rocky haze of black dust, lust

for life at closing time; sublime,

the baroque gesture beckoned

but trees just grow, regardless.

Every moment, after a certain age,

can either be a consummation or

a capitulation, again, to time.

I’ll never love enough to cover up

this hole Aeolus blew into my loosen-

ed Tooth—I never did make my peace

, either, with the goddess at Erice. I lost

all my emotional equilibrium

and cried and cried and cried and cried

“Don’t beat me anymore, my mommy.”

I’ve learned too many lessons now

to give it up.

10/11/2013

Etna/Catania

Catania Collective

The verve of all this black-

ened stone, dormant dome,

o’ cucchiti; lay down

thy vanity, prof.,

thy vanity of the curious

and nervous gesture to play

remembering all this stone

porous, black, and burnt,

an earth that moves through agency:

domus dominion domination,

associations of threat

and assassination, finding freedom

in a collective.

To tell the truth, the Mafia is

a fascist plague in socialist

times, a military ent-

erprise in private hands,

bankrupt

and ticking. I remember:

the ancient city below the street,

two swans, one black and one was white.

10/12/2013

Catania/Siracusa