Chi é e non é

... someone once told me that explaining is an admission of failure

I'm sure you remember, I was on the phone with you, sweetheart.

Invece da spiegare chi é e non é, non voglio svegliare me e ne pensare a te.

Poem with your name in it

Dangling dangerously under clouds

Aftermath of bitter somber

Never thought of sleeping over

In this bed of gangly owner

Ears were warned I hear

Leap again in nest so near

Not considering consequences

Over time you'll lose your senses

Great adventure I would say

Under spells of empathy

Earnest talk and mild at play

In conducted entropy

Random thoughts that cross the brain

Ambitions grew and made me vain

Burning under silver suns

Until dark night overcomes

Dimming days that once were clear

Numbing hours, filled with mire

Yours, and never truly minding fire

I have no idea on how to be confessional

That's as far as my misunderstanding goes

and it often leads me to corridors

that are not especially large or long

like the ones in a house these corridors

lead to rooms behind doors and that's

where the action in this poem is set

But I will not talk about these rooms

for I have no idea on how to be confessional

Gauge

Swung my fiery sword

vent my spleen at the Lord

so abstract, so bored

too much milk

too much honey

and phone calls

corrupting mornings

[thank you, S. M.]

Late afternoon, April 8...

...

Then he turns in to the harbor,

where at once it grows calmer.

Takes off his hat and waves it

like mad - like an old-time cowboy!

Something he won't ever forget.

You betcha.

Me neither.

[R. Carver]

Axiom of the nightly idiom

Like a truism laid to sleep.

Distant thunder

Two pines against lit background

midsummer light and the grass

my dog dreams of bone

He is also a horse

Worn out shirt or "the dregs"

as I once referred to as

Unable to be donned

retired later to cedar floors

Silverfish devours all Latin

and Greek and [hole]

a cemetery wall now

uneven death in your tongue

So distant a night, a winter

a dull thump of the clouds

my dog, my shirt, your Latin

wallow in wanting still, here

Gush

Calling the bluffs,

talking so tough

Angel of Corpus Christi

You're so misty,

tell me what I wanna hear

I'm looking for a tired face

in case you want to go.

Sunday.

Subtle fire

Our feelings slip like

subtle fire onto my skin.

"Nonchalant with Southern Crux suite" 

Vicarious Motherhood

You were born, like comma

in my tongue, hesitant

to my eyes thalidomide

at my age, incomplete

between the clock and the bed. 

My Fruit Fails Me

My fruit fails me

relinquishes

seasons, time.

My fruit, no more than I

bides in dead tree

Unfortunate lady-in-waiting

never fully ripe

Where have you hidden

yourself, beloved,

leaving me moaning?

Like a stag you fled

after wounding me;

I sailed forth, after you,

calling out, but again

you were gone. My house

being calm now.

My hair was wet

My breath was blue

I died that night

and so did I

House on the corner

with its two dorms

for each of two dogs.

Front porch swing

with its two seats

for each of us kids.

Living room window

with its double leaves

for only one to see.

The inside of the house

with its outside

for none to set fire.

Você se lembra quando dormimos

no chão do banheiro

nem eram bonitos

os azulejos brancos

Frios como o som

da casa de seu pai

Acordar abandonado

e fumar lá fora

Enterrando os ruídos

no porão da casa de seu pai,

calado como um gesto

meu sonho é seguido de nevasca

Anywhere i lay my head.

startling

starting

staring

string

sting

sing

sin

in

i

Film Stills [W.T.]