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Kitt Aug 5
The emerald stones embroidered into this pouch glitter
by the light of the flames that engulf this city
a baby shoe, tied in a bag of silk
hangs delicately round my neck
my pendant to bring me back to you one day
the sanctified emblem of hope:
el zapato de bebé de una niña robada
a locket, the other half of which you carry
my two identities lost in a crusade de fuego y sogas
One, the baby taken
The other a woman stolen
Mort à la pute! une sorcière! le gitan doit mourir.
my sentence carried out as you watch
just moments after we reunite again
only to have to say Dja devlesa!
My face lit by the burning cathedral
Then slackened by the tightening rope.
  Jun 9 Kitt
Chris Saitta
Brother, our young summers held us in a long chain like the phalanx of bronzed soldiers forward flung,
And the lion was skinned and hung out to dry like the sunned-fur of the beach at Marathon.
Brother, help me to dream again.

Brother, our yellowed days shook us like serried Hoplites of an atomic age,
Shoulder to shoulder, friction rubbed, all ranks split from the fissioned-flanks.
Brother, help me to dream again.

Storm-footed Titans of heat, dust, and irradiated wind pry from a ruptured Tartarus,
The flanks are an open pulse; the scorch-song thirsts for its sea-cooling to stone.
Brother, the lion lives that wears your skull around its mane.

Brother, dream of me again, of Persian arrows and lances,
And my fallen eyes instead of yours pouring in
With a sea of lavender water and mists
And summers of once-were.
For a slide video of this and other poems, please check out my Instagram page at chrissaitta or my Tumblr page at Chris-Saitta.
Kitt Apr 20
Can we just lie here forever
With our eyelids heavy,
fingertips light
arm behind head
chest against chest
Breathing rhythmically together,
exchanging silent words of sweetness?
Your metaphor for love
rings like a bell in my ears
as I trace the contours of your body
with my fingers, enjoying
every moment.
Kitt Apr 15
Notre Dame is burning
This we all have seen
But Notre Dame’s been burning
For longer than this dream

Families and their children
Have worshiped in her halls
But families and children
Were stolen by its falls

Notre Dame was sacred
For worship and for song
But Notre Dame’s not sacred
As it had not been for long

Maybe this magestic falling
Is what the world must see
It’s this tremendous falling
That may set the children free

Worship moves with ages
No building must we *****
Elaborate walls do serve to hide
Wrongs we can never correct

So mourn her burning if you feel
But spare us the unending plea
For Notre Dame and her ***** deals
Must end before eternity.
The church was a beautiful reminder of tradition and grandeur, but the sercrets that go on within the walls of the Church are better off cremated.
Kitt Apr 14
Despite the emptiness of the train station, I can hear the sounds of people.
Headed to work.
Headed home from work.
Day shifts, night shifts
Social visits
Business ventures.
All of the emotions and all of the stories they carry, unbeknownst to one another
save the innocuous and inadvertent clues given
by way of their postures or countenances, caught in glances
and forgotten just as quickly.

The station is full of ghosts,
of memories lost and faded from time.
Sentiments once deemed of utmost importance
but that now lie as irrelevant as those deemed unimportant.
All of them, lying together
as dead as dead can be.
There is an eerie chilliness to the air,
but I can’t bring myself to pull out my jacket and bundle up.
Somehow, the cold feels
fitting for the mood.
I haven’t been here in so long, yet I can still hear the ambiance
from so long ago.
I could almost feel the murmur of conversation
the occasional flipping of pages from books or newspapers
the omnipresent thundering of railways
the laughter of children on their mothers’ laps on the way to visit Grandma.
I can hear the patter of expensive Italian shoes
the shuffle of worn work boots
the clicking of heels
the scuff of flats
all running together
as the masses shift and shuttle hither and thither.
I thought about the loafers and stilettos that had once scuffed these hard floors.
I thought about how, in the moment, they must’ve seemed so vital,
so necessary.
But now?
Expensive and cheap shoes are buried together on decaying corpses.

I had lived near the train tracks, once upon a time.
After the world came crashing down around me,
it was only in rebuilding it that I found
something as benign as the sounds of a railway to be comforting.
But I did, somehow. It was a reminder of the world that went on
despite it feeling like it was at an eternal standstill.
Of course, back then I was completely unaware
of how I was building up a collection of memories
centered around that very sound.
I didn’t realize how I would forever hear that sound
and be brought back to a simpler time.
I never knew how important it would become, or the memories it would bring along with it.

And the rain came down,
and it kept coming down,
so nourishing to the parched earth
yet so gloomy and low. It fit the mood.
An event that must happen, for the world to survive
But that, in the moment, only feels like a dreary moodsetter on a blustery day.
It isn’t too dark out. Despite the rain coming down in torrents, it’s still bright.
As I drive along the highway I see that rays of
sunshine are poking out from behind the clouds, and I think that,
somewhere along the distance, from the right vantage, where the brilliant sun rays
hit the storm droplets at just the right angle, there might be a rainbow
somewhere.
Just too far gone down the road for me to see it.
Equality in demise
Kitt Apr 13
Did Doorthy kiss the Lion's snout
when she parted ways?
Did she lay her fingertips on the cold metal
of the Tin Man's breastplate
Or run her hands through the straw hair
of her friend, the Scarecrow,
Before departing with her slippers back to home?
Did she ruffle her skirts
when the Wizard blew away
most likely to be caught in another Kansas storm?
Did she shed a tear for the melted Witch
and let it fall into the puddle of water and robes?

So must I kiss you goodbye
when the time comes for me
to leave our sanctuary and find my own
far away from the land in which you entrapped me?
Must I pat the monkeys that hung waiting for me
to try to escape your palace?
Must I bow to the guards standing sentry
at the front gates of this prison
where I relive my horrors again and again
watching the movie of my memory replay on the walls
as if projected by a machine meant to remind me forever?
Must I wave my tormentor goodbye,
shielding my eyes as I watch you fade into nothing
into the sun setting over my captivity?
A letter to my former life.
Kitt Apr 13
she drinks in his kisses like sips of liquor
more potent than the champagne he pours into her mouth
bubbles rising within her

her vision dips
he gives another sip
her gaze drops
like ***** on the rocks

he's in his feelings now
his temper flares
her wrists are bare
the game goes on

the dance gets sloppier
as the floor gives way
they fall through to the mattress
his arms around her

anger fuels passion from long ago
pulsing his blood
the lights are low and red
there's a heat in the night that burns

there is no more dancing
the steps have turned to caresses
drunk on romance
she breaks the lock on her pants

and by morning she is alone with her hangover
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