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Chris Saitta Aug 7
Moon of Pythagorus, such proofless arithmetic derived,
No sigmoidal curves or cold calculus of the divine,
But pale barbarian, war-bringer of straight lines,
Your sea drifts commandeered like lit ash-spears in line,
Or the thrashing of wind-whipped rags of horses’ manes.
Moon of Pythagorus, the phantasms of your campfires
Of waiting armies flicker like fireflies along the stream.

Burn me, Moon, with your fire-tongued spears,
Your haunt of horses, unbridled and reared,
Burn an eye through my heart like the oculus of the Pantheon,
So I can see my pulse beat against the ash of naked footsteps
Of those who make false shrine to me.
Yes, Rome...
Chris Saitta Jun 14
Fall to me, all you streets of Rome,
With your embrowned oils from torched walls and breccia of shadows,
The pizzicato of stairways and afternoon slowly closed
Like the thick, leathery-echo from this book of all roads.

Fallen, smoldering empire of storefronts and back-shop heirlooms,
Your lupine hills unbound with milk of cur in the wind and woods,
To your fallow fields rowed deep by a conquest of oars,
To the deepest silence and soot-muted oneness of Pompeii,
And a sky that is an ancient coin, without worth,
But still rubbed smooth at the edges by overfond lovers.
Yes, more Rome.

For a slide video of this and other poems, please check out my Instagram page at chrissaitta or my Tumblr page at Chris-Saitta.
Chris Saitta Jun 4
I make my grave in her dark treason of hair,
Fragrant master of soldiers and memories,
Bei capelli, conspiracy of internecine curls.
Her upbraidings strangle all my sweet nothings
To breathless wish of the emperor-purple of lips.

Flow then like black gloss of birds
And the brood hatchlings of shadow, exiled eastward,
Fled like a premonition of warmth somewhere far off,
While the wine-colored blood spills his heart into a throng of mouths.

Love, you are the hardest grave,
Were you ever just a kiss
Or always from daggers made?
Porcia or Portia was second wife to Marcus Junius Brutus.  She has been speculated to be one of the few who knew of the plot against Caesar.
"Bei capelli" is translated as "beautiful hair."
Chris Saitta May 24
The dead lie like Rome,
Like toppled sunshine in stone,
From a boy who had blown
Into the seashell of the Forum,
Heard back in restoning, the alley of home,
The narrow, basket-flowered angiportum…
But, lips too strong, let out unknown
The stone-witherings of Medusa
And the bone dust of empire.
Is it wrong to write a poem
Warning folks in Ancient Roem
Those Visigoths and Vandals
It'll be a still life Scandal
when they over run your tired little
12,000 horse town
all the knowledge and the wisdom
that you've gotten, Greeks say taken stolen pillaged
(and then added to[o] your own quite special spin)
from the Greeks (and the Etruscans)
(will fade away)
Whom you Subjugated,  Like the Rest of the Known World
using reinvigorated plays
from their own playbook
Yes the Greeks, they saw and noticed
the subtle similarities
between their beloved Phalanx
a Body of men made of men
moving as one
killing as one
and Your beloved Legion
a Body of men with a Mind
moving as one
each man
in turn
Killing Individually
For The Glory Of Rome!!! BELLVM ROMANVM
That's all over now
or...                                       does it live on?????
             in this pome
and in some Western Hearts?              I hope so

— The End —