rain is the sign of fall
we take from solemn
heights, holy heights
of the skies you can't
see but merely feel in
the faint throbbing of
your precarious heart
laughter and lies go hand in hand
in the nights, the nights that have
become long and wet and there's
this sense of longing I haled into
me from the scent of a stranger's
body sleeping on my floor a few
days ago, though I am not sure if
I should use the word stranger to
describe him because there is got
to be something I don't quite get
about him nor myself because as
I asked him to light my spliff on
the rainy street I saw behind his
eyes a familiar flare greeting me
from the distant past, a flare that
turned my being into a flickering
sign of total and acute lunacy in
kissing a face never seen before
kissing a face never seen before
you see it had been just that morning that I stood
in the elevator staring at my eyes from the mirror
and thinking, too bad I never talk about the time
I spent in italy, too bad I never talk italian these
days, too bad, too bad... a sigh, and I left the lift
and vanished into the rhythm of commuting with
my thoughts anew, completely oblivious of there
being someone behind the veils of time pulling a
trigger or two in order to get my mind scrambled
there should not be a possibility
for two men to have scents that
alike, like there should not be a
possibility for such resemblance
between the face of an irishman
between the face of an irishman
who briefed a sex scene from a
novel of hemingway's, to a face
of someone I saw last over two
of someone I saw last over two
years ago in the marble hallway
of the house on via dandolo 24
