I wonder how a dead can travel
but I’m feeling you
All along my journey

Traveling from Asia to Europe,
I’ve always felt you in the clouds
Sometimes, in an train compartment
In the wind in Trieste,
And then saw you
Touch the sea, la mala

but I did not who you are
Until I found myself following two figures
Strolling off into the sunset

It’s easy to say it is making me who I am
But hard to live on an emptiness,
On a lost memory.
Hence, I refuse to understand the language
that only delivers solitude.

Coffee cup caught my tear
That actually did not come out
My pen shakes with its emotions
And this is how I’m accepting the reality
-quiet reflection of a lost life

Poetry is emotion
Traveling  is a magician of intensity
How much should I hate my blood
to be able to love my own skin?

I left a part of me along the cobble streets of Sicily.
Somewhere between the night clubs and the beaches I fell in love.
It was all at once, this uncanny emotion welled deep inside of me.
the sun left kisses on my skin by day
kisses on my cheeks by beautiful people at night.
my heart had never felt so light.
I left pieces of me through Italy

A new refrain,
something fresh for the tongue.
A bright lemon in the wake of
chocolate
and chilis.
Something softer,
less harsh.
Not quite sweet.
I could never stand saccharine sentiment.
Not too sour,
acid leaves a bad taste in my mouth.
Not ice cream.
Italian ice while walking the streets of Venice,
smiling and nodding at the men whose words we can’t understand.

This is ancient land, this is
       hallowed ground, this is
21 kilometers worth of tunnels.  

Blood stops flowing after death
                                                          becaus­e the heart is no longer beating;
no longer forcing blood to gush through veins and arteries and vessels.  
It gets lazy, becomes stagnant.  
Slowly slides down to the
                                               lowest point on the body; creates a
                                          reddish purple discoloration on the skin
similar to a bruise, but not quite the same thing.  

          This is what I imagine the fifth level of the catacombs to look like:
                                           a reddish purple discoloration
                                          spread across my mother’s back.  

This is what I see when I close my eyes and rub them a bit too hard for a bit too long.  This is what I see when I look into a hole in the stone walls that is big enough to fit an infant.  This is what I see in the reflection of the Trevi Fountain.  This is what I see when I try to remember the shape of my mother’s sleeping body as it curled in on itself on top of a flat hospital mattress.  

The color of death is not black, is not white.  The
color of death is the color of blood: the way it looks
through the skin after having
                                                       hours and
                                                                ­            days and
                                 weeks to
slowly slink down into the
lowest bend of the body.  

This is the reddish umbra of the earth that the
                                                                             eclipsed moon hides behind.  
This is my body given for you.  
Take and eat.  
                                                  Do this is the remembrance of
                                                                ­                                                me.

it's soaring through flaming green hills
your heart races with the curiosity of discovery
it's dancing on a secluded mountaintop
with the drunken energy of a motorino zipping.
it's the endless time spent laughing
lips tingling with wine and philosophy
furiously awaiting l'autobus
and saying basta to the pasta.
the hazelnut aroma of hot cappuccini,
and suddenly you have the bravery
to get lost alle tre in Trestevere.
it's watching sunrays part mountains and Corinthian columns
and sparkling on salty waters
and you inch toward the edges of cliffs
just to catch a glimpse.
it's the comfort of friends and Nutella
when Ryanair lands and Rome becomes Home
and life, and death, and carbs follow you.
it's the homeless and the hungry
sleeping in the strong arms of St. Peter
and disappointment and shame
consumes you.
it's sobbing when you are alone,
foreign, and strange
and sobbing when it's time to say
arrivederci
it's when you fall, your stupid heel caught between cobblestones
that you realize you're in love.

Too A.M.
Electric, as laughter statics to music
and stars battle, self-consciously
refusing to be outshined.
Glowing, fires
an Italian moon
of the countryside
whispers, for a moment.
and forever is now,
and the Moirai dance
and the moon, bewitched
and souls intertwined.

I talk a lot,
And a lot of it sounds
Like I have you in a stranglehold.

I can't hold up the facade tonight.

I must admit,
I cannot bear you tonight.

I don't want a memory
Of anything you ever did
Positive, negative
Or in the limbo in between.

Love is all I had for you,
Even when I saw the cracks
Forming in your armor
And I knew you could not love me.

I knew you were finished,
And tonight, it's all I know.

I should have never said a word to you.

You were a calculated surgeon
Who paid no mind to anesthesia.

Your hands were in the fire too.

We both knew we were hundreds
And hundreds of miles from each other...

But I was willing to run the gauntlet.

I wanted to bear the burden of time
With you alone,
And you said it was of no importance
Any longer.

How dare you.

How dare you lie to me
For this span of a hundred days,
And trade books under the sunlight
Because you knew they were safe
In the possession of the one you held dear...

You could turn the most caring man
Into Savonarola.

There is nothing darker than the putrid soul of your heart
Crusted by burnt desires and pyroclastic ash
Tortured by your existence, dipped into the hells of mankind

Bubbling skin and singed mercy embrace me whole
Turn up flames and burn me alive
Hear my screams ****** your mind

Cast me out of the dead, for I am not leaving
Laid in a forever coma then awakened
Pompeii is dead, Pompeii is dead, Pompeii is dead