Poetry

Verses cite, on reprinted rag sheets, ramparts of Babylonian deception: That there really was no time before or after the Jackie O’ reservoir. Carousel turntable spinning entranced against the great sadness. Abused, like all else churning clarity for those who savour the world's sustenance. Shining with an endowed grace no match for the fading Washington Monument wedding photo- collecting dust behind the mantlepiece decaying his balding admiration as her mind slips the window through the gate… look down over the shallow drop and answer to her. How is the colosseum from a tower turret? An authenticity reserved exclusively for the outsider; clawing at the air between illegitimate affairs and wicked deeds of enjoyment. Marking a path for rougher feet who choose the long walk home: evading the cruel illusion of choice. Murky surfaces dedicated to those who grin devilishly at the offer of imprisonment. Those who remain on the outer limits; the bridal path, same as girl scouts or tourists in horse drawn trolleys: Imagining how the city must look reflecting off the manmade Jackie O.

As children, we tried hard not to cut our feet, Wading into the glacial harbors of home. We persecuted anyone who dared explore the boundary of our inner circle; scrambling away from the foreigners– towards the waters edge as angelfish nipped at our heels. They tried to save us, but the long hot summer and our absolute certainty of damnation tethered us to dry, never ending highways and broken hearted priestly figures. Some weary travelers arrived at the station with no baggage; Free to come and go from the station as they pleased. They would disappear as the delusion’s end neared, but still, we envied their ignorance: the autonomy of their detached exclusivity and fragmented sense of purpose. For words are not considered sin unto those who ask it upon themselves. Fallacies of the soul reveal themselves. Sprouting bitter fruit inconsistently like hard summer crabapples in place of thorny branches- Forgotten and tossed from the vine, Washing up upon the shore as the seasons change.

Sleep now, exodus Miss the countryside Its brief existence Its nameless white birds who have no memory but that of endlessness. When Sunday traffic for a city becomes sculptural relief of the Field of Mars. And prisoners who wished us free build pyramids over my favorite tree, Now fabricated tombstones and meaningless national monuments. The theory of two: Splits time and association by adopting a method of spirituality indigenous to that of an ancient tribe. Either swimming underground or claimed to be “found.” The irreverent quality of a familiar flavor. A thinking spot, A worry rock, A triumphant procession which in the present is all but complacency For time and distance considered alike is the most destructive way to see out a window.

People are always asking Where were you on this day? Well, the answer is pretty simple Always lousy at math, don’t know when it’s time to walk away Most of us were lost to the oblivion of reality While the rest were forced to find their own Left with nothing but the density of that memory The nubby carpet on bare feet that walked four blocks to school every day; Knowing the two songs, one long and one short to play in order to walk up right at their conclusion Hair up, The way some of you will never feel the pull of the end of the day when you’re eleven rolling down at the foot of the bed making static with my tights as I waited for the shower There were three But we wanted to be so close We wanted to know, even back then, that this wouldn’t change everything. But surprise would have been a look in the eye An igniting Though even the disciples had a foul look on their faces that very next day And the next, and the next It was cacophony Not the chaos of victorious movement but an overwhelming weight that slowed the speed of sound To be honest I don't remember it well I was always lousy at math But I was too young to perceive its absence I floated by, escaping to that oblivion thousands of miles between me and my home I counted the cracks that connected my math teacher’s eyes To the rest of her face, On the sidewalk; I had never seen humanity like that realness, with no sense of humor A piece of art you must let dry else you’d ruin it’s integrity I know now why she was crying We pitied her brittle strands and shapeless way of presentation A spectacle I know now she was crying In black shapeless clothes She was staring back at us My sister was born in the first week of November I was four and my whole body pulsed with sick– I wonder if she had known that a sickness festered in the earth beneath us Infecting children as they walked to school Rushing through the veins of teachers, preachers I tried to shine my face in hers To smother something into her baby brain A rude awakening to the world That things would change I know now why she was crying

Written by Lucy Thorpe Daryl, Sodapop, Ponyboy. The three of them. Parting their hair with greasy fingers, spitting out boyish vernacular, yelling about how sadness feels when it sits in your chest because a boy is like a festering wound that must be cleaned and dressed. Shining and begging to be born anew, like the mopped metallic taste of late June train tracks. Sisters. Three of us, Sitting at the kitchen table, staring down at our plates. Making Pictures, colors, and shapes against ceramic. My sister raises her head like a soldier for his commander. Sometimes, I wish I was a boy. I picture her likeness in a fiery wreck. Her lines of her furrowed brow beg to laugh like a million thunderbolts and jeer like a major chord: A doctrine of deservedness, that even the meekest of men, clutch like a Pistol. Walk around with a conviction, Talk politics with the preacher, instead of tucking his folding chair away. She is wishing for the room to dig her heels into his straw bail lawn, to sprawl, to bake on the warm wood of the dock. We like to talk politics, money, the people who bleed out in far off states, The differences between Daryl, Sodapop, and Ponyboy. My sister mentions late June I imagine peeling my shirt off, the image of parting my hair with my fingers and speaking in boyish vernacular - my syllables biblical in the mere fashion in which they fall off my tongue. A girl wrote the Outsiders, clipping her girlish name into staccato initials. Her name was Susan and I can picture her palms flat on the table, her sisters giggling at gibberish pseudonyms like Daryl, Sodapop, Ponyboy.

A cliff crumbles quietly Almost silently At a rate unknown; unheard by mankind. You wait for the edge to appear But it never comes- Only the choice to follow blind men, or turn back. Before you were born a boy came to the door. Realized or written off another story- He was running from the cops, I think In the distance, a baby cried I wonder if he took it with him when he skipped town, feverish, crushing snails in a scraped path. Or if it was just epiphanies of the parental imagination, Children themselves. Rip up the licorice placemats, A game reflecting through glass doors Hungry for another life – when you only ever wished for this freedom A split personality longing to let some distant dog stray, through the gate which can only be opened by an expatriate. A cliff crumbles quietly Jaunting across the boundless plain Placing claim on your shaved down expression, Unconscious visions of caves and medieval fortresses. Only insanity when dreams become reality. And I can never tell if they are real Coyotes, Or birds Causing you to let go of nervous hands at dawn’s first light.

The dry heat, in that one room boarding house and a sense of guilt a gallery that slouches toward calm cotton, unchanging legacies weighed upon generations of mistakes ill fitting clothes: an evil that goes with the disintegrating grain and mold landscapes mistakes are never.. really.. keep close, the memory of innocence clinging to suggestions of hot oranges escaping ideas of strain allotted to the meak crooked men dance wayward can straightness be pursued when ten other women wisen in places clean pleats dare not venture a clean, clean bed rotten route, receding time again unmending from the sanctity of the safety’s everlong landing to be haunted by the locked cabinet knowing its contents dredged under deep cracks shipped back home that never existed cities invented upon arrival still itching, expanding.

Caro Lettore, In un mondo in cui la conoscenza è potere e il consumo è linguaggio comune, Cosa ti è successo esattamente? Persi lungo la strada, tra le identità, Patrimonio immaginario e battute fallite. Qualcuno una volta te lo ha detto per farlo ritrova te stesso, devi accontentarti di meno. Meno conoscenza, meno prospettiva e in definitiva un abbandono della verità. Sei rimasto deluso, Da una verità che un giorno verrà Renderti obsoleto, inutile Per la tua incapacità di fare la cosa giusta. Dear Reader, In a world where knowledge is power and consumption is common language, What exactly happened to you? Lost along the way, amongst identities, Imagined heritage and failed jokes. Someone once told you that in order to find yourself, you must settle for less. Less knowledge, less perspective, and ultimately an abandoning of the truth. You have been disillusioned, From a truth that one day will Render you obsolete, worthless For your inability to do the right thing.