{"product_id":"living_memory","product_name":"Living Memory","shop":"Tower Books Broadway","content":"THE UNDERGROUND\n\n        Thank you for your purchase\n\n    \n\n    \n        All rights reserved.\n\nLiving Memory\n\nPoems from Rome\n\nLisa Maraventano\n\nTo SS\n\nContents\n\nThird Energy\n\nI am here\n\nFranco\n\nSaudela\n\nThis is the year\n\nNo no e no\n\nSecond Chance\n\nStretch Marks\n\nAsino and Cow\n\nAlmost There\n\nUpon Finding “A Song for Bugs”\n\nHolding My Breath\n\nTaxi Rome\n\nBoxes\n\nBehind All The Masks\n\nThings We Don’t Believe In\n\nIf You Were Bad\n\nBills\n\nHell Yeah\n\nLove brought me here\n\nNext Step\n\nTo Make Whole\n\nAsino\n\nConfession\n\nThe Union of Souls\n\nEditing Myself\n\nClark Street, Part One\n\nClark Street, Part Two\n\nClark Street, Part Three\n\nMusic or\n\nTzadik\n\nSentient\n\nLast Day in Virgo\n\nLike Being Happy\n\nThe Maiko and Me\n\nDecember Poems\n\nUnderneath My Clothes\n\nPuzzles\n\nKámīnos\n\nThe Cow is Dead\n\nSono Pazzi Questi Romani\n\nI will go\n\nRome\n\nLa Padrona Divina\n\nLast Seen\n\nThe Deepest Part\n\nThird Energy\n\n1. I am here\n\nI am here to take part \n\nIn the bang your own drum circle\n\nwhere we make our own rhythms\n\nthat transform from cacophony to symphony\n\nWe start to play off each other\n\nListening\n\nListening\n\nFinding what is not there\n\nThat is ours to contribute to the beautiful noise\n\nWe are all making with each heartbeat\n\n2. Franco\n\nI: Prelude with Response\n\nI wait\n\nI am an idiot\n\nFor a text that doesn’t come\n\nI am an idiot\n\nFor a man to love me\n\nI am an idiot\n\nFor a man to love\n\nI am an idiot\n\nI have everything\n\nI am an idiot\n\nI have nothing\n\nI am an idiot\n\nAlone\n\nI am an idiot\n\nIn a crowd\n\nI am an idiot\n\nFingers ready to create the world\n\nI am an idiot\n\nThat God speaks through me\n\nBut I am an idiot\n\nI don’t do I don’t listen I don’t see\n\nI seek my own way not His\n\nI turn my back on Him\n\nI am an idiot\n\nDestined to be dust\n\nForgotten by even the wind.\n\nII: Verse\n\nModerate success\n\nI am a real person.\n\nI don’t pretend to be perfect anymore.\n\nI drink beer, smoke cigarettes.\n\nI can ride a horse.\n\nI have four children and a husband. I live alone.\n\nI have written fourteen books and sold maybe fourteen copies\n\nI know some Spanish French and Italian\n\nBut can’t carry on a meaningful conversation in any of them\n\nI’ve never had my own kitchen\n\nI give until I have nothing \n\nEmpty\n\nOf all except the past. \n\nI get up and follow my routine\n\nI craft words into stories from ideas\n\nAnd hope that is enough to stay alive\n\nBut all writers are dead and all readers are alive\n\nAnd nothing can save us from being ourselves.\n\nIII: Bridge\n\nHometown\n\nSacramento\n\nDrive and drive\n\nGet nowhere\n\nIV: Chorus\n\nI was almost tough and weak enough to take it\n\nEvery time I was happy being knocked down\n\nBut then I earned that smile \n\nFrom a tough old stranger\n\nAnd decided I didn’t want to be hurt anymore,\n\nThat I was strong enough to leave.\n\n3. Saudela\n\n \n\nNo one made her come out \n\nexcept me\n\nReaction to stress perhaps\n\nThe digging up, excavation of the memory\n\nInteresting\n\nYes Sophy said that at lunch just a few days\n\nafter the excavation\n\n \n\nHe is avoiding me: I am avoiding myself\n\nSo I dug around in deep memory \n\nMaybe Tuesday or Wednesday\n\nAnd Sunday she said that\n\nAnd by Monday she was Out\n\nVodka\n\nLunch and kiss in the elevator\n\nSex—hard slapping biting\n\nAgropoli, men\n\nSafety, Stacy\n\nPanic attack \n\nto Flora’s\n\ngot my nails done\n\nFriday met Gianluca \n\nOut of Control\n\nFriday night with the marine\n\nSaturday raging sore throat\n\nCame home. Crawled in bed.\n\nBut I got better with cinnamon and Salt\n\nand then Halloween Came.\n\nSaudela, the Roman goddess of seduction\n\nTalked to many men\n\nThen Richard with those big brown eyes, making out\n\nSucking the fingers of the cab driver Angelo\n\nEnded up with Riccardo in our room,\n\nSmall dick, condom, like it never happened\n\nNext morning date with Gianluca \n\nwandering around \n\nlooking for places to make out in the broad daylight\n\nRemembering it is illegal in Italy for a cock to be out\n\nFound that out with Joseph a couple years ago\n\nWhy can’t we give blowjobs in cars here like normal people do?\n\nThen Friday morning \n\nThe apartment in Fiumicino\n\nHe was there\n\nAnd we had wild, crazy, passionate sex\n\nI came with someone else for the first time in a long time\n\nIt was very good\n\nI stood in the wind, rainbow over the raging sea \n\nStorm \n\nAlive \n\nAbsolution \n\nin the midst of Sin\n\nWeekend slumber party with Flora\n\nand then Sunday afternoon and Monday in bed, alone\n\nNow it is Tuesday afternoon and I look back \n\nMaybe it’s been three weeks. \n\nThree weeks since the mining happened, minding\n\nHe still won’t see me, won’t talk\n\nI haven’t replied to Gianluca’s messages\n\nIt is time to go to the store and buy cigarettes, avoid the old man \n\nwho definitely should know better by now\n\nBut who am I to judge anyone?\n\nI want to be one of the guys again, \n\nLike with Mauro and Aristide over the fire pit\n\nThursday with Carlos and Bobby and Big A \n\nI think that will work.\n\nThis is my story. She is a wild one, Saudela. \n\nI am not the only one with the fucked up past\n\nOr the sexual acting out\n\nBut I am the only one in this story, my story\n\nSolving and resolving \n\nThis puzzle\n\nOf what is real—the good times or the bad\n\nBoth are real.\n\nI wanted to come.\n\nI was married once, and he loved me for a long time. \n\nUntil he didn’t anymore. But I threw it away\n\nMaybe if I had tried harder…I don’t know.\n\nI want to be wanted, I want to have love again.\n\nBut maybe it won’t happen in this life.\n\nMaybe this life\n\nI am on my own\n\nLike Prince told me all those years ago.\n\n4. This is the Year\n\nThree years he said\n\nThree years for what\n\nI didn’t know\n\nStill don’t\n\nBut this is the year\n\nThree years\n\nA year, time itself\n\nIs a construct\n\nBut I suppose has meaning\n\nOr wouldn’t exist\n\nAll words are made up\n\nSo accepting that this \n\nConstructed time \n\nexists and that the \n\nThree years have elapsed\n\nThis is the year\n\nFor what, I don’t know\n\nBut I am prepared\n\nI am advancing\n\nLike the army at Hastings\n\nUphill battle, the \n\nOne arrow penetrating \n\nHistory.\n\n5. No no e no\n\nGood, because \n\nI have nothing to say to such a coward except\n\nYour lack of courage brings us shame\n\nI too am Roman\n\nAnd you doom us to another life\n\nWhen we could have \n\nSolved ourselves this time around\n\nIt’s not over yet\n\nSo I will sit in my self-righteous anger\n\nFuel to burn\n\nTo keep me going\n\nNot even think about you\n\nYou are a disappointment\n\nand a brat\n\nA reflection, perhaps\n\nAnd show me where to change\n\nStop disappointing myself\n\nStop being a brat\n\nMove forward\n\nWe’ve broken up again\n\nSomething that never was whole\n\nIn this life\n\nWe can’t escape each other or our path\n\nOur destiny\n\nIt’s locked into our cells\n\nCoded in our souls\n\nBut I can finish getting dressed \n\nAnd go to the car show with my dad\n\nForgive everyone \n\nForgive myself\n\nForgive even you \n\nOne day, not today\n\nMaybe today\n\nMaybe by the end of this\n\nSure, I forgive your cowardice \n\nGrateful it isn’t what I inherited\n\nI feel sorry for you\n\nPity, mercy\n\nSympathy\n\nHow pathetic it must feel\n\nto be so weak and afraid\n\nI have no idea\n\nHold your pain, wrap yourself in it \n\nGuard your diseased heart\n\nTake all you can from women\n\nExcept love, you can’t feel or taste or see\n\nAnd I will live this side of our lives\n\nBrave\n\nFaithful\n\nFilled with love and joy\n\nI shall not complain or be dissatisfied\n\nI drew good cards\n\nAnd will play my hand.\n\n6. Second Chance\n\nWhen I was a kid\n\nThe Rubik’s Cube came out\n\nI was in the gifted program\n\nSmart, but not as smart\n\nAs a bunch of other kids \n\nWho could solve that thing in seconds\n\nAll nine sides\n\nYou are multi-faceted, and I \n\ncould only ever solve two \n\nOpposing sides\n\nBut there is no one else\n\nNo help, no cheating this time\n\nIt is me and this puzzle\n\nOf you\n\nI can’t ask you to solve yourself\n\nI am pretty sure I won’t be able to do it\n\nI can keep trying, but I haven’t solved one of \n\nThese puzzles yet\n\n7. Stretch Marks\n\nMorning Sickness\n\nSore breasts\n\nStretch marks\n\nFrequent urination\n\nWeight gain \n\nPoor sleep \n\nWater breaking \n\nContractions\n\nDilation \n\nEpidural, perineum\n\nPush!\n\nAfterbirth \n\nMeconium \n\nLatching\n\nColostrum\n\nSore nipples \n\nCrying\n\nHolding breath\n\nCradle cap\n\nDiaper rash\n\nDiapers\n\nDiapers\n\nDiapers \n\nNursing\n\nBottles, formula\n\nFeeding, high chair\n\nDiaper bag\n\nCar seat, stroller, walker, playpen, swing, bouncy seat, bassinet, cradle, crib\n\nTeething\n\nSitting up \n\nSpitting up\n\nProjectile vomit\n\nEar infections \n\nCrawling \n\nStanding, first steps\n\nElectric outlets and bookshelves secure\n\nThis is only the beginning\n\nWe become experts at all of the above, and more\n\nAs fast as we can, this trial by fire\n\nEighteen years \n\nof toys, sports, education, friendships, \n\ninstruments, adjustment, \n\nEveryday, something\n\nYet the absolutely hardest part\n\nis watching her, my baby, \n\ndisappear before my eyes.\n\n8. Asino and Cow\n\nBoth play the game\n\nhalf the deck\n\nturn after turn\n\nI don’t want to win\n\nI want to play\n\nHe wants me to win\n\nBut he must play\n\nAs hard as he can\n\nTurn after turn\n\nHe told me this\n\nAt the beginning\n\nAnticipation\n\nI think it is \n\nA dangerous game\n\nWe may run out of time\n\nBut this morning\n\nI see we can never\n\nrun out of time\n\nI went from\n\nParadise called\n\nWanderer’s Beach \n\nto eternal city\n\nTo the bridge by way of \n\nPanico  \n\nTo play these cards \n\nturn after turn \n\nMy love, what a genius you are\n\nHe says I helped design it\n\nThis game we play\n\nDrawing and discarding\n\nturn after turn\n\n9. Almost There\n\nA little lost, perhaps\n\nUnknown landscape\n\nCan’t see the sun\n\nOr tell which way I’m headed\n\nKeep going\n\nIt’s Summer\n\nMy favorite season\n\nTomatoes are ripe\n\nAnd I will swim today\n\nKeep going.\n\nIt’s Morning\n\nMy favorite time of day\n\nStrong black coffee\n\nBirds singing\n\nKeep going\n\nIt’s Monday \n\nMy favorite day of the week \n\nNew to-do list\n\nNothing required of me\n\nKeep going\n\nI talk myself through\n\nEach moment\n\nin this wilderness \n\nof Time\n\nKeep going\n\nStillness, patience\n\nThis moment is \n\nAll I seek \n\nEven as I go through it\n\nKeep going\n\nIt’s 7:24 a.m. here\n\n2:24 p.m. there\n\nI am so weary \n\nof nothing, from nothing\n\nKeep going.\n\nStep by step\n\nMy poor flat feet\n\nEarth bearing \n\nMy wandering\n\nKeep going\n\nBarefoot tiptoe\n\nWhatever it takes\n\nKeep going\n\nKeep going keep going keep going\n\nEcho, refrain\n\nI know where I am. \n\nI am going\n\n10. Upon finding “A Song for Bugs”\n\nI found a poem last night\n\nI wrote decades ago\n\nThat said almost the same thing\n\nAs what I wrote yesterday morning.\n\nYesterday was long.\n\nI barely made it\n\nI had to dig deep inside\n\nfor strength in order to survive it\n\nI’m a little nervous for today\n\nIt is hard to keep going like this\n\nTo stay the course\n\nI say, “I can’t do it anymore.”\n\nBut inside I hear, “You can.\n\nAnd you will.”\n\nMercy comes in the forms of \n\ndragonflies and bees\n\nOther insects I fish out\n\nof the pool, playing God\n\nThis one saved, that one sent into\n\nThe pit\n\nI saw one I’d never \n\nseen before\n\nA glitter bug, I called it.\n\nSmall like a ladybug, but\n\nblack with gold glitter on its\n\nwings. He sparkled\n\nHe got saved.\n\nI tried for an hour to \n\nResuscitate a dragonfly\n\nIt almost worked\n\nEventually I had to give up,\n\nthinking about different people\n\nI’ve lost over the years.\n\nAm losing now.\n\nMercy comes in \n\nwaves, the lines \n\nof sunshine on the \n\nbottom of the pool\n\noutlined in rainbow\n\nRibbons that \n\nVisibly demonstrate \n\nThe universe is \n\nmusic vibrating around\n\nus at all times\n\nand we are part of it\n\nYet some days are long.\n\nWhen the sun gets low\n\nthe water turns to gemlike \n\naquamarine, topaz\n\nAnd I swim in jewelry like\n\nElizabeth Taylor.\n\n“You just do it. You force yourself to get up. You force yourself to put one foot before the other, and God damn it, you refuse to let it get to you. You fight. You cry. You curse. Then you go about the business of living. That’s how I’ve done it. There is no other way.”—Elizabeth Taylor\n\n11. Holding My Breath\n\nWhen we don’t talk\n\nIt is like holding my breath\n\nI can only go so long\n\nBefore I must breathe\n\nAgain\n\nBut I have learned \n\nTo breathe in deeply \n\nI can hold it\n\nDeep, deep\n\nEventually \n\nI will breathe\n\n \n\nComposition\n\nWhere does this song\n\nCome from, that sings in my veins\n\nCaffeine, nicotine, alcohol\n\nWhatever we use to try\n\nTo stir the blood\n\nBut it is there\n\nThat song\n\nFlowing within\n\nBeneath the layers\n\nPast the walls we’ve built\n\nTo shield us from the world and ourselves.\n\nSing, veins, sing\n\nI am listening\n\nI hear your voice\n\nSinging my song\n\nAnd all the music that \n\nwas, is, and shall be\n\n12. Taxi: Rome\n\nRiding past the mouth of truth\n\nPalatino, Caracalla\n\nWith “I kissed a girl and I liked it”\n\nplaying on the radio\n\nI keep getting into cars\n\nWith strangers, men\n\nToday I am not sure—\n\nDo I smell or does he?\n\nI live off cigarettes wine and pain\n\nand it’s enough\n\nI heard music today\n\nAnd it’s enough\n\nI walked past the ancient gate and walls \n\nPlaces I used to go\n\nAnd it’s enough\n\nToo much sometimes but\n\nI like it\n\nI like being here\n\nAnd it’s enough\n\nThese lies I tell myself\n\nUntil they are true\n\nAnd it’s enough\n\nI don’t like lying to myself \n\nor anyone else\n\nMaybe they aren’t lies\n\nMaybe it is enough\n\nand I am the greedy child\n\nHe thinks I am\n\nAlways wanting more\n\nAlways wanting some other thing \n\nThe next thing\n\nAlways wanting\n\nAnd he is afraid\n\nOr maybe he knows\n\nIf he lets himself go\n\nLets himself be mine\n\nI will use him for a moment\n\nthen become dissatisfied.\n\nUntil I learn \n\nTo quit lying\n\nQuit wanting\n\nQuit\n\nI will wander \n\nUntil my feet get tired\n\nGet in \n\nwith strange men, \n\nTaxis or otherwise\n\nPay my fare,\n\nUntil I am broke.\n\n13. Boxes\n\nThis is the box you will live in\n\nThis is the box you will sit in front of \n\nThis is the box you will take with you\n\nWhen you don’t have your other boxes\n\nThis is the box you will drive around in\n\nThis is the box you will check\n\nThis is the box you will carry\n\nThat also carries you.\n\nThis is the box\n\nThis is the box\n\nBox\n\nBox\n\nLeft \n\nRight \n\nHook \n\nWalls go down\n\nThis is the box \n\nYou will end up in\n\nMake sure you see a little bit of it all\n\nBefore you go\n\n14. Behind All The Masks\n\nBehind all the masks\n\nI strip away\n\nThere is another\n\nI keep trying.\n\nBut ultimately\n\nI’m just trying to stay alive\n\nAnd if the masks keep me safe\n\nAnd alive\n\nI will layer them on\n\nThe masquerade\n\nThe only dance I know\n\nSo keep to yourself\n\nStay in your shadows\n\nAnd I will wear my masks\n\nStay alive\n\nStay well\n\nThings We Don’t Believe In\n\n15. If you were bad\n\nIf you were bad\n\nAs you claim to be\n\nYou would have consumed me destroyed me\n\nBroken me\n\nInstead I am stronger, wiser\n\nMore filled with love\n\nFor you and all\n\nThan I could imagine before\n\nIf you were good\n\nYou would be a liar, false\n\nHidden under a mask of self-righteousness\n\nAnd no good to anybody\n\nInstead you hide, inventing shadows\n\nWhere there’s only light\n\nBy closing your eyes\n\nBlind, when you could see\n\n16. Bills\n\nWalking home today\n\nI realized\n\nThe path I chose\n\nWas love\n\nPassionate, unrestrained, wild\n\nLove\n\nShould I lament that?\n\nShould I be sorry?\n\nI can hear the bells ringing\n\nseven o’clock\n\nSaturday in Venice\n\nI have problems back home,\n\nBills to pay\n\nWork to do\n\nAnd if I’m honest\n\nI’m worried\n\nEven as the bells chime\n\nThe here and now\n\nBut the path I choose is\n\nLove\n\nWith all its grand adventures \n\nAnd when I think about it\n\nMy bill’s already been paid.\n\n17. Hell Yeah\n\nI tried to go to a club called Sinners last night\n\nBut they wouldn’t let me in\n\nThis is the best thing that’s ever happened to me\n\nI’ve been curious about this place for months\n\nSince I first came to Flora’s apartment down the \n\nVia Portuense in the autumn\n\nNow six months later\n\nI live around the corner from this club\n\nAnd thought what the hell\n\nLet’s try\n\nI haven’t tried to get into a place in decades\n\nAlthough rejection and I have daily discourse\n\nBut that’s another story\n\nAfter being turned away,\n\nWe got into a taxi and went to Delirium\n\nThat place is for children the cab driver said, \n\nmeaning Sinners\n\nMeaning we’re too old\n\nI’m okay with that\n\nBrooke said I don’t want to go to some bougie place. \n\nShe likes beer and hamburgers. She is a real person.\n\nBut I had been curious about Sinners\n\nSince I’d first seen it\n\nThe snakes, S’s of their logo\n\nThe idea itself\n\nBut,\n\nThey wouldn’t let me in.\n\n18. Love brought me here\n\nLove brought me here\n\nAnd here I stay\n\nI don’t regret it\n\nI’m sitting on a balcony \n\nIn Rome\n\nThe sun is shining \n\nCars buzzing the street like bees\n\nBees like smoke\n\nI smoke, waiting\n\nBut all in all\n\nI am glad I came\n\nPeople give me things\n\nI need, without me asking\n\nFlora just gave me some socks\n\nSo even if the love\n\nThat brought me here\n\nIs different than I imagined\n\nThere’s still love\n\nA lot of it\n\nIn all the little corners\n\nFilling up the day.\n\n19. Next Step\n\nI have gone this far\n\nand then \n\nthere is no more\n\nStubborn mule\n\nNot one more step\n\nShall I take\n\nI see the abyss waiting\n\nwaiting to swallow me up\n\nI looked over the edge the other day\n\ninto the black hole inside\n\nI saw the shades \n\nI saw the darkness\n\nI saw the truth\n\nI have run from that place \n\nMy whole life\n\nAnd guess what \n\nI am still alive\n\nBut in the safety of my bed\n\nAnd the sacred space we share\n\nI dared to look\n\nPeer down into that place\n\nMy own sin\n\nMy own shame\n\nMy own reckoning\n\nYou’re right, we all have shades\n\nInside us\n\nI’m right too, we are all beautiful messes\n\nAnd should find joy were we can.\n\n20. To Make Whole\n\nAll poets are crazy\n\nAll artists are crazy\n\nPoets are artists \n\nWriters actors musicians\n\nPainters\n\nSculpt this clay\n\nEarth\n\ninto shape\n\ngive form \n\nto the emotional collective\n\nEnergy \n\nof Earth\n\nCrazy\n\nWhat is crazy?\n\nAll poets, artists are crazy\n\nCra-zy, man\n\nSlang once\n\nSay it like a beatnik\n\nCra-zy\n\nThe word comes from\n\nto shatter, crush, break to pieces\n\nFull of cracks and flaws\n\nKintsugi—repair with gold\n\nemphasize the imperfections\n\nWe need the cracks\n\nin us to feel the energetic flow\n\nfault lines of humanity \n\nWe fill them with gold\n\nMined from within\n\nTo keep us all together \n\nOne.\n\n21. Asino\n\nI see your face in my mind\n\nBut it’s not your face now\n\nIt is a memory, a caricature almost\n\nfrom ancient days.\n\nI tried to draw it, with ink\n\nHow I see it in my mind\n\nBut I can’t\n\nBring the ink in the image \n\nto the page.\n\nYou are outlined in black\n\nI see it.\n\nLight must define you.\n\nGive you shape.\n\nI let the energy of Light\n\nenter my body, my pores, my cells\n\nAnd find the Shape of the known Universe \n\nLooks exactly like the shining drops of \n\nwater on my skin in the light\n\nAn Eye—center, all colors\n\nCome with me, my love\n\ninto Light—I found you\n\nin the Shadows \n\nin my mind\n\nA hidden man, night creature\n\nI zoomorphize\n\nBut your face in my mind is the face\n\nof Man—thousands of years\n\nof Waiting. \n\nSo close. \n\nRight there in my mind’s eye.\n\n22. Confession\n\nFeminists, my fine friends,\n\ncover your ears, cover your eyes.\n\nThis is not for you.\n\nI’m sorry about it.Truly.\n\nThis is all very shocking \n\nto me as well. I never\n\nwould have thought \n\nThis could happen. To me.\n\nAnd yet it has. I \n\nam in love\n\ncrazy, stupid, soul-breaking \n\nlove with a man\n\nwho is more than a man.\n\nThe man, the one who\n\nmakes me a woman.\n\nI’ve never even kissed him.\n\nAfter two years.\n\nOnly seen him a few\n\ntimes—five, to be \n\nexact. In Rome.\n\nHe is everything I would\n\nwant in a man, and\n\nnothing I would want\n\nat the same time. He \n\ndestroys me daily, and I \n\nrebuild. My mind, my ego\n\nMy pride and vanity. My folly.\n\nThis man, the Roman\n\ndoesn’t want me.\n\nBut I don’t let go.\n\nI think he does love\n\nme. But not enough\n\nto face his own fears.\n\nMaybe, maybe if I wait\n\nAnd let life pass by.\n\nThe thing is\n\nYin to Yang\n\nThe Other Half\n\nDivine Counterpart\n\nTwin fucking flame.\n\nThe one I knew \n\nwas out there\n\nFor whom I was \n\ndesigned.\n\nHow can I turn\n\nmy back on that?\n\nAnd say, “Meh.”\n\nTime will tell, as it has foretold\n\nThis destiny over many lives. \n\nI wait.\n\nLife passes by.\n\n23. The Union of Souls\n\nThe music layers the air\n\nWhile the gulls continue laughing \n\nat us\n\nReminding us it’s all a joke\n\nA big cosmic game.\n\nThe guitarists from the forum\n\nAre filling the air\n\nAnd letting us know\n\nYou are music \n\nas well as earth and sky.\n\nThere is impatience here,\n\neven here,\n\nIn this ancient eternal place.\n\nNo time to be still no time to \n\nReflect\n\nAnd be. There’s a little\n\nSadness in the air\n\nOf dissatisfaction. Everyone searching\n\nLooking instead of seeing\n\nBut that can’t be helped. That can’t be \n\nexplained or taught.\n\nThis is life’s lesson\n\nThe reason we’re here\n\nSomething we each must \n\nLearn on our own, we \n\nAll must learn\n\nMoment by moment\n\nBreath by breath\n\nAnd so I breathe\n\nYou breathe\n\nOur collective inhalations, exhalations\n\nRespiration the filling again of our Spirit\n\nThere are many levels\n\nWe rise and fall \n\nAgain like breath\n\nSeeking to become\n\nSimply level\n\nBalanced. Whole.\n\nOne.\n\n24. Editing Myself\n\nThis poem \n\nshall be short.\n\nI’ve already used \n\nmore than my share\n\nOf words.\n\nWait a minute.\n\nMaybe I didn’t use\n\nthe words\n\nConsume them\n\nMaybe I \n\nGave the words\n\nGenerated them\n\nThe core reactive\n\nwithin\n\nfused with Source\n\nEnergy released\n\nContained in\n\na glass of water\n\nPoured out\n\nI edit myself now\n\nIn these days\n\nA skill I’ve learned \n\nthrough flowers and pain.\n\nShort, and to the point.\n\nKeep space between\n\nthe branches\n\nSo folks can see\n\nfor themselves \n\nWhat is there. \n\n___ ____ __\n\n___.\n\n25. Clark Street, Part One\n\nToday\n\nis the last day.\n\nThe day before the first day\n\nBecause time travels that way\n\nEndings, beginnings, endings, beginnings\n\nWe surf the waves\n\nOur bodies know \n\nMore than our minds, less than our souls\n\nI exist in my mind \n\nBody and soul\n\nlike strangers, acquaintances at best.\n\nEnough to say hey, no deep conversations.\n\nAlthough we all inhabit the same time and space\n\nLike Clark Street\n\nAll these lives going on\n\nTragedies, triumphs\n\nGardens growing, marriages and men dying\n\nTemptations and trials\n\nBattles, defeat, decline\n\nWhere is Victory?\n\nThat winged Nike to ride the Sky\n\nand vanquish all fear, all shadow.\n\nThe air conditioner comes on\n\nBreaking morning silence\n\nYour big silence I can’t break\n\nWhy should I want to break it?\n\nWhy can’t I accept your silence\n\nAnd find peace, victory within?\n\nMaybe tomorrow. \n\nToday is the last day.\n\n26. Clark Street, Part Two\n\nThat’s why.\n\nThe next song comes…\n\n“If I ain’t got you.”\n\nI am a creature for your love\n\nand if I ain’t got you…\n\nEverything means nothing…\n\nI light one more cigarette\n\nPick up the pen, let smoke and ink flow\n\nFind out my heart\n\nI watched Clint Eastwood’s segment\n\nof the Blues yesterday\n\nThe last one, six weeks of summer\n\nSpanning time, piano blues\n\nAnd tonight I will see some live at Ground Zero\n\nwith LaLa and Seth and Mississippi Marshall\n\nand Lee Williams on drums\n\nElement 88\n\nI will smoke on the porch\n\nAnd chat, pretend I am alive\n\nWhen \n\nI know the truth.\n\nLet’s feel Alive you said, three summers ago.\n\nIf I ain’t got you with me\n\nEverything means nothing.\n\nEven ink, and smoke.\n\n27. Clark Street, Part Three\n\nThe next song comes on\n\nI wrote to many years ago.\n\nCharacters alive\n\nSinging\n\nThere is an empty pause\n\nrest\n\nSpace \n\nto hear nothing\n\nI love space\n\nin ikebana in words in time\n\nAn open, empty place in which to \n\nReset—champagne bubbles\n\nFreeland says\n\nTango, secrets, bed\n\nA rest, a pause, a place and movement held\n\nStill \n\nExquisite \n\nThe only thing: Anticipation\n\nYou said that too…\n\nI tell myself\n\nEnjoy this: Love\n\nThe tension of it\n\nLike thread\n\nStrung out, Alive\n\nYou are right, like always\n\nInfinity surrounding the whole\n\nEternity, surrender.\n\n8:08 a.m.\n\nI am Alive.\n\nSinging.\n\n28. Music or\n\nPlaying the Field or\n\nToo Many and Not Enough\n\nThe Resonator\n\nThe first one \n\nthe fraud\n\nthe real one\n\nthe young one \n\nthe mysterious one\n\nthe wise one \n\nthe nice one\n\nthe boring one\n\nthe good one \n\nthe bad one \n\nthe arrogant one\n\nthe forgetful one\n\nthe women\n\nthe useful one\n\nthe old one\n\nthe funny one\n\nthe foreign one\n\nthe sweet one\n\nthe criminal one\n\nthe wandering one\n\nthe philosophical one\n\nthe intelligent one\n\nthe storyteller one\n\nthe real one \n\nthe real one\n\nthe real one\n\nthe real one\n\nthe romantic one \n\nthe forbidden one\n\nthe forward one\n\nthe married one\n\nthe gross one\n\nthe handsome one\n\nthe warty one \n\nthe nerdy one\n\nthe scary one\n\nthe religious one \n\nthe angry one\n\nthe artistic one\n\nthe cowardly one\n\nthe big one\n\nthe crazy one\n\nthe persistent one\n\nthe forgotten ones\n\nAnd only one \n\nThe real one\n\nThe one and only.\n\n29. Tzadik\n\nHe did not break my heart.\n\nHe lacerated my heart\n\nwith thousands of small cuts\n\nthat create a pattern of scars\n\nThe scars form a web\n\nconnecting \n\none to another\n\nA map of scars\n\ntorn into my heart\n\nA map leading inward\n\nto the darkest\n\nmost feared places\n\nI have been on this journey\n\nfollowing my map of scars\n\nTo find the center\n\nThe origin of the Universe\n\nThat exists in every beating heart\n\nAnd I find\n\nnot minotaur monster pot of gold\n\nBut the quantum spark of light\n\nFusion, all life in this electromagnetic pulse\n\nRight there. Right there at the core.\n\nYou did not break my heart.\n\n30. Sentient\n\nShe’s leaving me\n\nmy little muse\n\nWho sparked awake\n\nThe dormant flame within\n\nI will see her off\n\nwith a smile\n\nand a wave—no tears.\n\nTaking her \n\nOne hot August afternoon\n\nin the sandy lot outside \n\nthe station Narni-Amelia\n\nI saw this woman walk toward me\n\nAnd she brought me home\n\nTook care of me\n\nNo one’s taken care of me for a little while.\n\nIt felt nice to be cared for.\n\nI noticed this\n\nas an outside observer at first\n\nNoticed that I felt\n\nThese pathetic little words “it felt nice”\n\nequal to the little pathos she reawakened.\n\nI could feel something again\n\nI felt\n\nFor the first time all long sleeping year\n\nShe cooked and talked and listened\n\nWe watched movies on the couch in the evening.\n\nWent to the pool, out to dinner. Grocery shopping.\n\nFound a kitten we brought home.\n\nLittle things that added up to the \n\nOne thing everyone longs for.\n\nAnd then, \n\nlike a seed in spring \n\nI grew\n\nCracked through the shell, back into the \n\nsun\n\nVirgo Sun\n\nwhere I belong.\n\nI am alive again, feeling, being, and my\n\nlittle muse\n\nheads off today to sing her own song.\n\nBe gentle with her, World\n\nand kind.\n\nTake care of my little muse\n\nAs she’s cared for me.\n\nThis what I ask of you, World.\n\nEven while she’s telling me \n\nlast minute things\n\nabout radiators and power circuits.\n\n31. Last Day in Virgo\n\nHelp\n\nHelp\n\nNo one is coming\n\nNo one is coming\n\nHelp yourself \n\nMercy, Jesus\n\nThe pain is too much\n\nI try to focus\n\nWrite\n\nLive\n\nEnjoy flowers, the kitten. The wind.\n\nLearn the Greek alphabet and \n\nItalian verb conjugations.\n\nCook and eat.\n\nListen to music.\n\nDo my fucking nails.\n\nMaybe take a walk today\n\nSee if any blackberries are left\n\nLive my life\n\nI should try to quit smoking, see if\n\nthat helps\n\nMaybe go to Tuscany, hear some music.\n\nMy fucking heart\n\n\t\t—no, it’s my soul—\n\nfuck.\n\nHelp, Lord\n\n\t   Please\n\n      Have mercy\n\nAnd give me the strength to bear\n\nthis unbearable pain.\n\nOr let me go home.\n\nOr give me a way through.\n\nI love you Lord, \n\nand trust you.\n\nIt will be all right in the end\n\nand if it’s not all right\n\nit’s not the end\n\nGod has heard\n\nYou took my hand in that\n\n\t\t\tchurch\n\nAnd gave him to me in the garden\n\n\tat Croce di Malta \n\nAnd here I am \n\n\t\tcrying in a windowsill\n\n\t\t\tin Umbria\n\nThe bet is yet to come \n\nSita, Zitta\n\nNever doubt, Lisa\n\n\tNever \n\n\t\tdoubt\n\n\t\t\tHelp is on the way.\n\n\t\t\t\tBe ready.\n\nLike Being Happy\n\n32. The Maiko and Me\n\nOver my headboard\n\nis a piece of fabric\n\nI bought in Kyoto upon which\n\nis a Maiko wandering\n\na path edged by sakura.\n\nShe is alone.\n\nI touch her as talisman\n\nwhen I feel lonely.\n\nThis is what she does, \n\nI do.\n\nShe was designed this way. Like me.\n\nWhere is it I’m going?\n\nMaybe this path leads to \n\na castle\n\nOr just a little hut\n\nEither way, I’m home\n\nI have wandered, beautiful\n\nin my silk robe\n\nShowered with petals\n\nCherry blossoms\n\nstuck in my hair\n\nThe perfume, the color\n\nall this earth can offer\n\nWe walked, the Maiko\n\nMe\n\nFeet never on the ground\n\nfollowing our one path home.\n\n33. December Poems\n\n[1]\n\nWhat does this page want to be? A new start, a new story.\n\nWhere is the bitterness, escaped on a breath\n\nIn the morning light\n\nThe sunrise painting the sky\n\nI wake to new purpose, new meaning\n\nIn the day, the everyday \n\nThe new sacrifice, love poured on the pyre\n\nTo be turned to ash\n\nTo rise again, free\n\nFlying \n\nFilled, fulfilled\n\nLove’s ever constant fountain \n\nflowing through my heart, my lungs, my veins\n\nI can give, and give again, and give\n\nUntil time passes, the time comes\n\nWhy not? What else have I got to do?\n\n[2]\n\nSuddenly\n\nin the smoke and ash\n\nI see what the fire has refined\n\nI see the phoenix in the clouds\n\nI see\n\nI see morning and evening\n\nThe colors of the sky, a rainbow along the horizon\n\nRunning parallel to earth\n\nA way, a road, a journey \n\nI must take\n\nBecause why would a way, a road, be there if I wasn’t to walk on it?\n\nLetting go, it all gets done.\n\nI open my heart, my hands, my mind to receive\n\nWhatever is coming.\n\nI look forward to the Coming, the day coming \n\nComing on the clouds of glory.\n\nIn the meantime, I sweep the floor\n\nAnd make the bed\n\nPlot and plan, wake and walk\n\nThrough the days allotted to me.\n\nAnd in these days, I find the good:\n\nCrisp morning, candlelight, calm\n\nHorseback rides and puppies, roosters crowing\n\nBeach picnics, sunshine by the swimming pool\n\nFlowers.\n\nFolly, failure, chaos\n\nMay rip and churn through my days like surf\n\nI can ride.\n\nExhilarated, triumphant\n\nI beat down the fear \n\nWith the strength God gives me.\n\n[3]\n\nAnd in return, the sacrifice is honored. \n\nI hear the sacred say thank you, Lisa\n\nWell done, good and faithful servant.\n\nCome and share my joy.\n\nAnd so I come into His presence, invited, beloved\n\nunafraid to live.\n\n34. Underneath My Clothes\n\nYou told me\n\nWolves aren’t afraid of the sheep\n\nBut didn’t realize\n\nI am a wolf, motherfucker\n\nA wolf in sheep’s clothing \n\nAnd wolves aren’t afraid of the sheep\n\nThe shepherd tends the sheep, takes on the wolves\n\nBeats the shit out of them if he has to.\n\nHe does what he has to do to keep the wolf at bay\n\nAnd keeps the sheep for his own meat\n\nBecause he is the one who will devour them later.\n\nHe decides when and where.\n\nWolves aren’t afraid of the sheep\n\nBut we respect the shepherd. \n\nWe fear his ability to beat the shit out of us.\n\nWe are wary, and cautious\n\nI have two dogs, Norwegian Elkhounds\n\nA Viking breed\n\nWolves with curly tails, long memories, \n\nIntelligence and attitude\n\nI am in charge of this pack of wolves, \n\nThe Alpha\n\nBut I know the Shepherd. \n\nAnd have learned to obey \n\nA wolf tamed and trained to listen.\n\nWolves aren’t afraid of the sheep. \n\nI am a wolf, motherfucker. \n\nA wolf in sheep’s clothing\n\nYou want a sheep to fuck, to devour\n\nLeave the carcass behind.\n\n35. Puzzles\n\nIn the Ardennes\n\nWe drive by the bust of Rimbaud\n\nAnd I take a picture from the car window\n\nthinking we should all stop to write a poem here\n\nBut this day is the poem\n\nWhen the puzzle of my life \n\nIs solved\n\nAnd I am exactly where I am supposed to be\n\nIn a Citroen with young professional people\n\nStill full of dreams\n\nAnd finding their way on \n\nthis road of life.\n\n36. Kámīnos\n\nI am not asking your permission\n\nOr for approbation, approval\n\nI do not need your permission\n\nTo exist\n\nTo think to be to feel\n\nI allow myself\n\nTo do these and more\n\nI am not asking permission\n\nOr for acceptance, accolades\n\nFrom anyone anymore\n\nI accept no condemnation\n\nNo reprobation, reproof\n\nI need only my conviction\n\nTo act\n\nTo work to see to heal \n\nAccept no condemnation\n\nAsk no permission\n\nThe refiner’s fire kámīnos \n\nDivine forge and path\n\nare one and the same.\n\n37. The Cow is Dead\n\nAs if a curse is lifted\n\nA spell broken\n\nNebuchadnezzar\n\nI sit \n\nAs is always my destiny\n\nOutside San Pietro\n\nI feel\n\nAs is always my destiny\n\nThe Spirit, teaching\n\nI am headstrong\n\nObstinate, stubborn\n\nAll words for the same thing\n\nHard hearted, \n\nhard headed\n\nHard\n\nI finally see\n\nThat through my own folly\n\nMy own pride and vanity\n\nI created \n\nMy own madness\n\nMy own dissatisfaction\n\nAnd if I allow the layers\n\nOf lies\n\nTo evaporate\n\nLet the curse\n\nLift\n\nThere is Jesus,\n\nThere is the One\n\nSetting me free\n\nAll I have to do\n\nIs walk \n\nThrough the open gate\n\nOn two feet\n\nNot four\n\n38. Sono Pazzi Questi Romani\n\nEat more\n\nShop more \n\nDrive faster\n\nFuck with dark fetishes\n\nCare less\n\nThink less\n\nTake more, give nothing\n\nFaith and \n\nLove forgotten, hearts cold\n\n39. I will go\n\nI will go\n\nSomewhere \n\nThe sun can reach\n\nNo more streets shaded by unhappy dwellings\n\nLight unable to penetrate even the highest windows\n\nI was a fool\n\nThere is always darkness here\n\nWhere I thought there was light\n\nThe darkness lives in the human heart\n\nPagans run after all these things\n\nand never find them \n\nNever find them\n\nThere’s always something else to chase\n\nSome other appetite to satisfy\n\nSo they run and run, chasing \n\nNot even bright enough to see\n\nIt is only the wind\n\n40. Rome \n\nI had this thing called\n\nRoman fever\n\nFor three years\n\nAnd now I’m cured\n\nFever free\n\nFuck off you pagans\n\nKeep running after \n\nAll these things\n\nI don’t want them \n\nAnymore.\n\n41. La Padrona Divina\n\nI am the woman\n\nEvery man wants\n\nFaithful, loving\n\nBeautiful, vivacious\n\nPatient, sexual\n\nFruitful, rich\n\nQuiet, strong\n\nConfident, balanced\n\nFunny, sweet\n\nEducated, elegant\n\nIntelligent, obedient\n\nA true helpmate\n\nAnd companion \n\nAt home, a home\n\nAnywhere and\n\nEverywhere\n\nI was made for you\n\nMan, Uomo\n\nNot a coward\n\nNot a boy\n\nSo be it\n\nCosì sia.\n\n42. Last Seen\n\nLast seen recently\n\nLast seen a long time ago\n\nI look everyday\n\nTo find out my status in the world\n\nOn this app called Telegram\n\nMessages relayed \n\nDots and dashes\n\nThe code to be broken,\n\nUnderstood\n\nSubdue, submit\n\nWords you used \n\nI said I wanted to care\n\nThen we were off \n\nOn a stupid chase\n\nHide and seek\n\nPlayground games\n\nBut we’re not children\n\nAnd the game long ago\n\nCeased to be any fun\n\nYou were last seen \n\nSmiling at me on a side street in Rome\n\nOutside Rosy O’Grady\n\nA late December night\n\nYour fly was undone\n\nYour smile when I told you\n\nRidiculous, imperfect was\n\nLast seen recently,\n\nLast seen a long time ago\n\n43. The Deepest Part\n\nThe deep truth is\n\nIt hurt\n\nThe growing up\n\nMaybe I write to \n\nUncover the pain\n\nMaybe I write to mask it\n\nBut I will never tell\n\nThe things that happened\n\nThe lie is important\n\nNot the truth\n\nNot the truth\n\nAnd maybe I was so desperate \n\nYesterday to flirt\n\nAnd distract myself with boys\n\nSo I wouldn’t write \n\nI wouldn’t think this feel this remember this\n\nBut I remembered late last night\n\nHow hard it was\n\nTo be hurt and used\n\nNever good enough\n\nRemembered the jealousy\n\nThat I knew joy\n\nAnd innocence\n\nSo they destroyed it\n\nDestroyed it all\n\nAll of me they could\n\nAnd it has taken years to rebuild\n\nThe simple innocent joy\n\nI once knew\n\nThat I was born with\n\nAnd they couldn’t bear\n\nBecause of their own despair \n\nAnd darkness\n\n    \n\n    \n        Personal use only.","delivered_at":"2026-04-30T14:21:07.154Z","from":"Underground Cultural District — substratesymposium.com"}