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Author: Santi
Elite Ratio:    7.28 - 299 /307 /90
Words: 269
Class/Type: Poetry /Misc
Total Views: 2504
Average Vote:    No vote yet.
Bytes: 1729


My brothers & I somehow came up with this New-moon celebration thing.

"il vino della casa": a vineyard's house wine.

"Che minchia" (MEEN-kya): Equivalent to "What the fuck" in Sicilian. Very useful phrase. Literally means "cock". Yup.


squinting through setting-sun & shotgun talk,
Beppo, Seb & Vito love me enough
to drink my backwash on a regular basis.

we share at least 50% of our genes anyway,
chased down with il vino della casa, unearthed from the cellar.
I consider how this has to count for something,

should be enough, while out the window of the old ford
my hand becomes a hawk scouring its wings
through a wind of fine muscle & bone.


at dusk, our empty moon is low along the coast
& nearing the teapot in the constellation Sagittarius
as we travel eastward against the stars.

each night this week the moon has waned in cosmic reverie,
the houses drawing closer to the trees in a sooty light
that kept the very thought of us alive.

now we are four night birds falling into each other,
spilling wine on cracked leather seats & saying
che minchia! to every bump & curve in the road


out of town. we watch each silhouette giving in
to the no-light. the earth itself spewing grit & salt,
grinding on its dark axis, seemingly alone.

having always moved, our bodies can't recall
why we spin this way or who first named the blank moon
New, believing with enough faith for all

that the moon was not lost or gone forever,
not a greatly missed & missing O, but
an unlit promise: a there-not-there still full.

Submitted on 2011-01-27 00:46:04     Terms of Service / Copyright Rules
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  gosh, now i see how Aly ups her words per, she just posts a pretty poem, talk about sneaky!

i couldn't write a poem like this, even if i replaced all your things with my things i still couldn't write a poem like this. it's lovely, it feels a bit elusive- the way raphael is sometimes elusive, not really elusive (your poem) it's just that in 3 particular passages you hit me with your phrasing and the rest of the poem is like glue, like the 985% of a rock: holding the seam of a rock.

i won't copy paste and name them, like this poem, i'll leave you wondering.

and because it's not something i'd change, not something i could replicate i'll not give line by line on the poem, but just enjoy the view.
| Posted on 2011-03-11 00:00:00 | by theludus | [ Reply to This ]
  this just makes complete sense and makes me think of when i would have liked to have been born had i been given the choice and so it is a favourite in the way that the remaining 4 square inches of childhood safety blanket are still a favourite.

you tell a story well and when words are set out this way it is simply that: a story well told and there is no-nonesense-no-padding-no-fat and maybe that's what i like the most about this: it is sparse yet somehow fulfilling, in the way that the last piece of good breakfast sausage is best, when picked up and eaten from the hand.

it is impossible not to see steinbeck in here and maybe lorca too before he got all radical on our collective ar5es and well, that's it i suppose.

i like the language; i like the descriptors and i like the atmospherics too (being out of town in order to watch yourself disappear is just the mutt's nuts).


take it easy,


| Posted on 2011-02-21 00:00:00 | by Awkward | [ Reply to This ]
Esta Spalding

Skin-tight with longing, like dangerous girls,
the tomatoes reel, drunk
from the vine.

The corn, its secret ears
studded like microphones, transmits August
across the field: paranoid crickets, the noise of snakes
between stalks, peeling themselves from

I am burdened as the sky,
clouds, upset buckets pour
their varnish onto earth.

Last year you asked if I was
faint because of the blood. The tomatoes
bristled in their improbable skins,


This is one way to say it.
The girl gone, you left.

& this another.
Last year in August I hung
my head between my knees, looked up
flirting with atmosphere
but you were here
& the sky had no gravity.

Now love falls from me,
walls from a besieged city
When I move the mountains shrug off
skin, horizon shudders, I wear the moon
a cowbell.

My symptom:
the earth's
constant rotation.

On the surface the sea argues.
The tide pulls water like a cloth
from the table, beached boats, dishes
left standing. Without apology
nature abandons us.
Returns, promiscuous, & slides between
sheets, unspooling the length
of our bodies.

Black wild rabbits beside the lighthouse
at Letite. They disappear before
I am certain I've seen them
Have they learned this from you?


I read the journal of the boy who starved
to death on the other side of a river
under trees grown so old he would not feed them
to a signal fire. His last entry:
August 12 Beautiful Blueberries!

Everything I say about desire or
hunger is only lip service
in the face of it.

Still there were days I know
your mouth gave that last taste of blue.


When you said you were
I pictured a tree:
spring, the green
nippled buds

not the fall
when we are banished
from the garden.


Another woman fell
in love with the sea,
land kissed by salt, the skin
at the neck a tidal zone, she rowed
against the escaping tide
fighting to stay afloat.

To find the sea she had to turn her back to it,

The sea is a wound
& in loving it
she learned to love what goes missing.


Once the raspberries grew
into our room, swollen as the
brains of insects, I dreamt a
wedding. We could not find our
way up the twisted ramp, out from under
ground, my hair earth-damp.

I woke. A raspberry bush clung to us
sticky as the toes of frogs.
A warning: you carried betrayal
like a mantis
folded to your chest -- legs, wings, tongue
would open, knife
the leaves above us.


If I could step into
your skin, my fingers
into your fingers putting on
gloves, my legs, your legs,
a snake zipping
up. If I could look
out of your tired eyeholes
brain of my brain,
I might know
why we failed.
(Once we thought the same
thoughts, felt the same things.)

A heavy cloak, I wear
you, an old black wing
I can't shrug off.

O heart of my heart,
come home. O flesh,
come to me before
the worm, before earth
ate the girl,
before you left without


You said, there are women
I know whose presence
changes the quality of air

I am not one of those. The leaves
lift & sigh, the river
keeps saying the unsayable things.
I hesitate to prod the corn from the coals
though I have soaked it in Arctic water.
I stop the knife near the tomato
skin, all summer coiled there.
You are not coming back.

One step is closer
to the fire.

September will fall
with twilight's metal,
loose change
from a pocket. Quicker than
an oar can fight water,
I will look up from my feet
catch the leaves red-handed
embracing smoke.

Around me, lost things gather
for an instant
in earth-dark air.
| Posted on 2011-01-28 00:00:00 | by AlyRose | [ Reply to This ]

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