Bacchino is a lump of meat,
a glaucoma, if you lick out his soul.
Bacchino malato is a tribe.
The light of a wedge, sawing his
neck, early, long ago, when
already a child. Hey, gray warm
catkins, the skeleton of the
tender ones, the majo-domo
cracks in the fatherland. The flax
bites. To the trunk of a tree it
rips open the tree, not the crust.
The inside grape of deers, their
antlers burning in the trunk, goes
across water. Budapest wakes up dead.
* * *
flies in summer my father calls them
the louvre’s acquisitions in the last
twenty years webothstand
we are totally certain webothknow
we fight about naser
I have to make a phone
we both have
we have meat for
HE HIT ME
Rested she-tunnels blinked on high terraces.
Why should the snake go to the sun?
It doesn’t know.
Why should it laugh?
It doesn’t know.
It would be bruised at the sting and the front
and if it would insist, it could fly.
I offend and buck.
Where is the wound?
Why is the wound?
Where is the frog?
Why did Anthony Caro hit me so hard
in Spoleto and open America for me,
although we wasn’t from any
America. Why do I feel
good in churches in Italy and in
Wyoming? People there are truly devout.
They kill and rush into love making,
the pure love making. They’re dreadfully
silent, they vomit and kill. The road
shakes, the air above
the road shakes and the cowboy
holds, the cowboy always clings. Clouds are
bright and drugged. We lived in
house without a fence on the way
to Wyoming. In a house with
a light brown door with
warm red bricks, with a giant tree,
and with a swing, destroyed by
ILYA KAMINSKI ACCEPTS HE’S MADE OF FLUIDS
For iota, to spin her head with black
iron is times times. To save
the bullet to Mayakovski’s head like
a goalie, to take off like a bird is
times times. To dry into the orgasm
of the world. To shift grey
bricks, to shift them. Will it rain? Monkey,
monkey, you’re ours! You’re sunny
and made of iron! Get up, put the same
cap on your head. Jackets have
gilt edges. A hemlock leaks. Out grows
golden grass. Goal, goal, goal, goal, I
follow the rhythm at 10 Union Square.
Latte and croissant are mine.
IT FLIES, IT FLIES… A GRASSHOPPER
I was waiting for soldiers in a doorway.
The soul, the eyes, the teeth,
we all have pigeon’s fingers:
in a currant in the middle of the woods.
Dream, make love and
write. The text lies on you
and makes love to me. I push away
midgets with a hammer,
with its gleaming
surface. The field is green.
Wagons stopped in the air.
Sometimes also a keeper bumps into them.
Only when it’s snowed up.
SOTOPORTEGO DEL CASIN DEI NOBILI
I lose my mind, you’re without foreskin.
I’m hurt, I lose my mind.
I want you to be like me,
I have my foreskin. Hi-yah,
Hi-yah, I leaned on slates, but
still it drew me
down, it cut my fingers.
Grayness is bomb.
Smooth and moist it shines.
With treasure go the amadous,
moved by carbon arc light.
From tendril to mountain, from
mountain to steep abysse. The jug of
sage, until I didn’t step in the enlarged
head of the fly. Hot bitumen poured
from the inner walls of it’s mouth.
I was skilled with acqua alta,
but it was hot and there were
snails here, fried by heat.
Snails were normal size, but the
fly was enlarged about
two thousand four hundred times.
The square in Ispahan is eight times
bigger than San Marco square in
Venice. St. Mark in Cortona is
sculpted in profile. Snails are
drenched in black by now
and the two thousand four hundred
times enlarged fly’s head is still
a coat room, not a hall.
Nail the verb to find! Confucius died
in a stirrup. They come and
glitter, he said, they’re like toys.