Broadcast - "Subject to the Ladder"

I'm not Pygmalion
Hooked by failure
Ruled as a juvenile
Aged as an infantile
Subject to the ladder

Ruined by affection
Excepted by exception
Predicted on a graph
Cornered by ritual
Diminished by impression
Cried out in the lesson
Subject to the ladder
Subject to the ladder

My thoughts are coming through
Emptiness follows too
A cyclone full on feeling
In the silence of the room

Defended by defendants
Corrected by the pain
Inspected by a sadness
Exhausted by a game
Subject to the ladder
Subject to the ladder

My thoughts are coming through
Emptiness follows too
A cyclone full of feeling
The silence of the room

A picture turning over
Jewel in the water
Where echo saw reflection
Not what it taught her
Invaded by the quarrels
And I denied the lathe
Let me chop down the laurel
A goal I won't escape

In bullied deception
But when the whistle came
Esteem had broke infection
My torment fought with shame
Subject to the ladder
Subject to the ladder

My thoughts are coming through
Emptiness follows too
A cyclone full of feeling
The silence of the room
Subject to the ladder

cycles

I wanted this moment's pause

out of a chosen confusion 

to relentlessly conserve without awareness

to become aware 

between stretched glass

that rests itself, planked upon mountains of rubble

reflections of glass and glass

square windows of purple light

it's being watched or we pass through 

as though it were a stage curtain to push aside gently 

and beachdrift in the center of the street, your long skirt tireless

at your heels, further to repose on a stone wall 

spiraling out 

we are red

red and posing 

the grins are real or tortured out 

C- quiz

lacrime, stanno sognando
alla vetrina, vetro-nebbia,
e sassi del mare spiegano
la luna, e riflettono le stelle;
spero di bagnare in sogni,
di essere bagnata dalla piove,
nella pioggia della luna,
che entra in una cornice
costruita di coniglie...
che bello, questo vuoto
bianco cielo, che strano
essere qui

facebook pictures

this stone wall
flat, spirals out
we are red and pose
for recollections
our skin attentive to its being watched
is it true, a piece of the soul is stolen
or is this the way of things,
infinitely mirrored so later when I am white and creased
can see what I once
might have been
if I hadn't thought so much about the pose
about the shape of my smile

Chioggia

Realm of sailors, 

where dirt mounds encircle us 

in horns we 

sprout beards

where the water 

glitters at the sky 

the adriatic needles, perhaps immaculate 

Madonna, a mermaid island all your own 

you're pegged to waterstilts 

beckoning us back

rocking us slowly towards another dawn

roads like veins 

clouds like lakes 

teeth like pebbles

my heart skips

delicate, lounging shape of you, 

the june of your uncertainty

-clustered and huddled here as we are together, there is no space to breath 

-we live in these gorgeous palaces, among gardens soaked in lushwater, in the wetgreen mist, bathed in mist, always pelting and succulent flowers with cups and cups, shimmering, hallooing out in birdchimes every often

   when do we see them? 

   when do we play in our gardens? 

elsewhere, perhaps, or in a moment that

  well, you're never surprised when it happens, but soon after there again is a murk of people, but thoughts and essences, and experiencing through your skin rather than verbal sense, which is frustrating, and then dulled, like a flat redrock were lain across your spine, smooth and mooncold 

    yet there is nothing, locked in you, there is nothing but this mist, but this desire to also be mist 

and so it goes 

and I never really learned history, politics, or culture

but I'm not sure anyone can at all 

so what to do? he tries to show me videos of people senselessly beaten and burned to death under stalky trees

normally windmoaned and violet with nightshrubs

too many defecits and undulations 

but the tide pulls even, I wonder

and we spin on an axel 

the grounded cycle we are 

round and round 

so how is it that I look at you, and you at me, and 

what is it we can really see? 

let thoughts pass through you like mist
let thoughts pass through you like mist
let thoughts pass through you like mist
let thoughts pass through you like mist

find the time
don't make your motto the hourglass

lost crickets preach
we sway to their hidden beats

beyond the sifting hills
the soft sun leaving warm sparks to die out

we lilacs make haste to perfume the clouds
we lilacs pressed between your thumbs
we lilacs wait in history books
to crease your lips
for the gentle caress of you

when the light hits

I dreamt a resort
absurd and remote
green as algae, dew dripped
whispering with glow-bugs

the cliffside dragged
my feet dragged
along the cliffside tucked below
a flat river canyon
aquamarine, miles, miles below
irises exploded
flat sheet, flat river sheet
opaque and endless

I slipped and felt nothing,
no terror, I dangled with the canyon edge,
beneath me, the endless green, the aqua sheen

I wanted to release
let the sheet receive my limbs

I could propel off the wall, feel the rock's grey bark
I could swell into the deep,
I could float along the river canyon, down into the night
The coal rocks hugged the cliffside, twinkling under all that green
            demurely escalating in sweltering, flat, flat
deep

But I clamored out
grabbed roots with lackadaisical fists
fists of the long grass
hedged my way out, out
out of my sleep, lurched out
the bedroom drowned my eyes
the great nothing of the morning
and the bells of the chiesa
and the torrent of the rain

"you live your life like a page from the book of my fantasy" 

patience can be a fun game
where you're stuck at a bus stop for 3 hours
and you find yourself incredibly amused by the old ladies gibbering next to you
and a distorted silver pole

Ferrara

white cranes reflected
in skyscraper eyes
abundant lips
the mountain tips
the wind plays a game with
the curve of the vines
the cherub he spies
absurd clucking clocks
with flowers that sing
and white cranes reflected
in blue drops of sky
in clouds made of tin
and strawberry sigh
pink gore dripping down
hands ripping grass
and stuck in our hair
a piece of ripe pear
already squashed in a
bag full of fools
quadratic visions
of train-side string spools
a breakfast of rain
a strange sort of pain, of a memory
of a history I never knew
we walked through the gut
of a castle, where imprisoned
lovers wept in perpetual night
dank dropped sunken bricks
a ceiling painted with fire sticks
in separate rooms of the same dungeon
dreaming of the soft hands and
the shivering skin
and white cranes reflected
in frescoes within