Bartolomeo
he woke to a howl
he saw that Italy was in Night
So he lit a candle
starred through his window
saw Women in love
Dogs wandering
a man playing a Violin
the color of every woman's hair
as she crossed him

Bartolomeo
stood up from his tiny bed and put on his shoes
opened his wooden door and looked over Venice
the air was thick with sleep
thin with open Eyes

he stepped out into the Night
crossing a river
where a Frog laughed
where a Bird chirped

He was headed to a ball
filled with beautiful women
the richest of wine a man could taste

He crossed the river
passed a few homes:
children sleeping
mothers fathers love making
drunks drinking
birds flying to their nests

Bartolomeo
decided to take a short cut to the Ball
went into the woods
where he got lost

The sun came up
hungry
thirsty and dry to the skin

Night came again

Bartolomeo
kept walking
following the smells and sounds of homes

Then an Angel showed her self to him
The Angel had said she was “Mousai”

Bartolomeo asked The Angel if she was the Angel of Death
She laughed
saying
“Quite the opposite”

and she whispered into both of his ears
fell to his knees
and collapsed onto his belly

When he woke
he was back in his bed

With the Violin player out of his window
and the women in love
the dog wandering
with the Ball still in order

Then he had the strangest urge

he looked into his breast pocket and found a drawing of a strange looking box with legs and strings

it read
'gravicembalo col piano e forte'

So he took it to a Violin maker

Bartolomeo showed him the paper

the Violin maker asked him what it was

and Bartolomeo explained to him that the Angel of Death came to see him in his dreams and left this in his pocket

that the Angel of Death whispered a strange Tune in his ear
which made him fall to his knees and belly

He told the Violin maker that this is the Tune you heard before your Death

The Violin maker
was cautious at first
so Bartolomeo offered him gold to build it
So the violin maker did so

When Bartolomeo's project was finished

He trusted it to be the voice of Death
that any man who heard it
was to die

So he took it out to the middle of the Forest
thick with trees


Pressed a key
the hairs on his neck stood

he waited for her
for Death

She never came

So he pressed another key

a slightly different pitch

Then another
it was thicker
more hollow

and to the far left
was higher
sharper than the others

then Bartolomeo ran his fingers across all of the keys

his eyes closed in fright
in ecstasy

Bartolomeo
left it there
for the night

and went back to his little home
and slept

in his Dream
a Tune played
it played through his bones
his hair
the eye lashes on his skull
the thin layer of skin on his lips
the palms of his hands
Throat
Stomach and Legs

The next day he stayed inside
worried that Death was outside his door

He waited for the moon to be dominate

He entered the woods

To find his musical Death Siren

Still there

And he sat at this Death Siren

Pressed a key
The Night seemed to hover over him
Like the lights of a Play
Like the Rifles of an execution
Like the Lips of a Woman
Like the Eyes of a child

He pressed another

Then he remembered the song in his Dream
and Pressed another key

Closing his eyes
he heard the song behind his eye lids
on the lobes of his ears
the end of his nose
and the tips of his fingers

And he played the Tune
What he thought that Death
had whispered into his ear
and down his spine like dripping wax on a tree stump

The Trees bent closer to hear
The Roses
The Birds
The Snakes
The Rats
The Moon
The Def
The Blind
The Mad
The Moth
The Dog
The Feline

Bent closer into the night
and gazed into the Forest

The Night was filled with his Tune
a mix of sorrow
of lasting hope
of a lover walking into the arms of Eternity's Death Canoe
of Sunrise
of starvation cured by bread and wine and cheese and meat
of *** and lust and love and lips
of death of tears of lonely nights
of war veterans
of sailors of painters of mothers of fathers
a mix of
Death and the smell of coffee
of
A woman and a lake
of
The Fountain of Youth and cigarettes
of
Adam and Eve
of
Insomnia and a runny nose
of
Waking up
and Falling asleep.

I am the young girl running around the house,
looking for the pony,
on Christmas morning,
while the ship is slowly sinking,
in a manure flavored sea.

I am the armless tennis player that
is convinced he will defeat Roger
in less than an hour,
using just one ball, over and over again.

I am Roy Wright at the beginning of the trial,
with a big stupid smile in my pocket,
and a tinny black book in my soul.
I am the faithful survivor of unfaithfulness
and I will be the one that lands on his feet,
in Scottsboro heaven.

I am Bartolomeo V, the one with no vendetta,
having a croissant,
waiting for Nicola to shave, before we take off in one of
Rothko's paintings. May the 5th be
with the ones who actually did it.. and, you know what?
I honestly think Cronaca Sovversiva is a great title,
even though I haven't read the ******
thing and I have no sympathy,
whatsoever, for any anarchist.
Hell! It's hard for me getting my **** together in complete order. I don't want to think what would become of me
in complete anarchy.

I am the one that wakes up every day
with a stupid smile under his nose,
not remembering the scent of yesterday's failure.
The one that starts dreaming as soon as he gets up,
ignoring the fact that he might be an ignorant
*****,
with no desire to go to outer space,
but with huge hopes up his sleeve for
M. Damon and his agricultural knowledge.
I am in favor of all fancy schmancy Earth saving knowledge,
and I am aware that all that space debris in my head
will do some serious damage one day.
If they ever figure out how to get it all in.

I am the tic, that will come after the tac-toe, this time, and not the other way around!
the encore of every good concert,
the yin for the panda ****,
the slim leg for the flamingo,
the gambler,
the rambler,
the day rider.

I am the Syrian boy that just learned to swim and
all of this infinite blue soup
is nothing more than a Saturday stroll.
I will get in the back of that truck and I will breathe
the purest air that someone could ever breathe,
I will sleep the sleep of reason and monsters will not be produced.

You have my word!

I am the skin before the needle shoots up
all its ink.

I will be perky. I will be green.