In my father's kitchen,
I grew up with Sade,
bleeding tomato sauce,
braised sausage,
doughy pasta,
and parmesan cheese.

How lucky to be raised
on such warm wooden floors,
the kiss of life kind to me.

And how I've squandered it,
listening to Sade alone with
dry pasta,
canned sauce,
soy sausage,
and no cheese

Half-heartedly dancing
with a cheerful grimace
plastered on my face: What was.

All I think now are moments.
Tiny little f r a c t i o n s of
a second of a thought,
when I didn't try hard enough,
or failed to defeat my expectations.
Maybe those fractions
make up the difference between
happiness and whatever this is,
nostalgia insists.

One day the thought of never
achieving became so overwhelming,
I disappeared, isolated myself,
lived like a pauper,
afraid of wasting time,
stoicism by my side.

But even then,
with no distractions,
I couldn't rid myself of the thoughts.
If anything they were
more magnified by the silence.

Yet all I craved was silence...

and clarity.

How strange that whatever I crave  
puts me
              exactly where I don't want to be.


Things turned out. As they continue...

had I known this sitting
on the sun-soaked floors of my Italian roots,
I'd have jumped a decade ago,
perched at the window screen,
wondering how far the fall...
...no, I don't think...
but was it high enough?