imagine that you live in a world where, until you reach the age of sixteen, the food orzo is forbidden.

you've heard about orzo. how could you not? it's everywhere, because it seems like everybody loves orzo. orzo this, orzo that. for your whole life, you've heard about the glory of orzo. most people you know can't wait to try it. they talk about it all the time.

you, though, you've never had the overwhelming urge to eat orzo, not like it seems your peers do. still, you go along with it, because everybody else loves orzo and can't wait to try it.

eventually, you ask your dad whether he's always liked orzo. "yes," he says, "of course. you might not like it now, but you'll love it when you're older." he then shows you how to make orzo, even though you're not at all curious.

your peers have begun to try orzo. they all give glowing reviews. but despite their enthusiasm, it still seems kind of odd to you. why is everyone so worked up over orzo? what makes it so great?

life goes on. maybe you tried orzo. maybe you didn't. either way, you've decided it's not your thing. the only problem? no one else gets it. they all say, "what do you mean you don't like orzo? everybody likes orzo. maybe you just haven't found the right recipe yet." but you know that you don't like orzo. you probably never will. and everyone else thinks you strange for this.

this is what it's like to be asexual in this environment.

just past midnight, in bed with you
together, yet I alone, listen, awake,
shuffling in a Pandora world,
Iz's ukulele invites me over the rainbow,
unaware and unbeknownst to him,
I am there, already
awaiting for his too soon,
untimely arrival.

the weekend war, culture vs. football,
resolved, peace negotiations concluded,
orzo and grilled chicken repast served,
après le bon deluge,
love the treaty signing dinners.

just past midnight,
caress thy hand with solitary thumb,
whispering you are my woman now.
you groggily answer interrogatorily,
"what?"
and I suppress the infectious,
giggling way too loud.

these are the unsummoned moments,
these are the thee-free moments,
this the summary of a man's boon,
their disparate pleasures collectively,
a unity deserving the honorific,
Untitled Moments.

*Why is my vision blurred, my cheeks wet?

Fluidity with skin aching towards the moon
Marks left behind on my young aching back
Continue to take their time to--
Dissolve.
I could adorn and paint my body
Just like the rose, I always wished to be.

You get a good chuckle with me
And recognize that in all my poems about you
I do a direct address: "You"
I think you could keep up with me
Lets be that weird couple at the expensive restaurant
That discusses the elaborate idiosyncrasies behind the world
While holding hands
I will leave you something behind, with my smell.
Because I could really fall for you.

A halting breath, a silly moment
You eat it up
Eat me up
When I behave just like a child.
But my bedroom voice,
You love the best.

Throw in the broccoli, the orzo, and lemon juice
I'll make myself a porcelain doll soup--
Just for you.


You told me I just bang my poetry out
As if I am writing a text
How amazing it is to you.
I think its amazing, how you make me feel
In a crowded room
And I see all the blurry faces in the background
Shadowed bodies, with the blurry faces of my past
As I always have
But I think with you
And leaping like a ballerina after my dreams
I could be....well
Very very happy, sir.

I don't want you to go
But I also know adventure does not end here
I don't think there is a finish line
But you won't let me give you a name
With every fleeting line I write.

Warm hot taste
A burst of flavor
Soothing muscled arms and limbs

Let me be your whole three part meal.

out of lust he detached
his eyes from the recording meter,
frames shifted apart,
he turned when all was already gone.
as he fiddled between elastic bands and clips
he realized :
time for another cigarette and a barley coffee.
with his friend’s eybrows
the patron of the corner bar ***** the sister,
too ****** not to deserve it at least in dreams.
a song popped up again
unwrapping fifteen years of ratafia candies .
as he crossed the street, again
the yellow light reminded him that santander
was a rainy city .
what mostly ****** him off was not being able to smoke on the street

Italian version  written in 1995:

per concupiscenza staccò
gli occhi dal contatore,
l’immagine cambiò parte,
si voltò quando già non c’era.
giochicchiando tra l’elastico e le clips
si rese conto:
era tempo di un’altra sigaretta e un caffè d’orzo.
il signore del bar d’angolo
stuprava la sorella colle ciglia dell’amico,
troppo stronza per non meritarlo almeno in sogno.
una canzone si rifece viva
scartando almeno quindici anni di caramelle ratafià.
riattraversando
il giallo gli rammentò che santander
era una città piovosa.
soprattutto lo irritava il non poter fumare in strada.

When I try to take my thoughts
And put Penne to Pappardelle
I can never find a proper rigaToni
Orzo I thought...
I'll just embrace being fuSilly