qui si lascia correre (la penna, il dito, le dita)
esercizi di stile, fare volare le dita, intravedere il senso e lasciarlo come una scia d'olezzo ché il branco di cani semantici l'inseguano, fuggi, sempre una parola oltre, sempre una parola più in là, ack-ack con attack, ritmo, ritmo, tempo, ma c'è un'amica che muore, c'è un'insalata di tumore, di parole con una punta di tormento, tormentilla, gioventù sguaiata, lepri e aviotrasportati, aeroporti e aeroplani che rollano su piste della memoria. stop. auguri. in bocca al lupo. provaci.
P. Muldoon from "maggot"
A Hare at Aldergrove
A hare standing up at last on his own two feet
in the blasted grass by the runway may trace his lineage to the great
assembly of hares that, in the face of what might well have looked like defeat,
would, in 1963 or so, migrate
here from the abandoned airfield at Nutt's Corner, not long after Marilyn Monroe
overflowed from her body stocking
in Something's Got to Give. These hares have themselves so long been given to row
against the flood that when a King
of the Hares has tried to ban bare knuckle fighting, so wont
are they to grumble and gripe
about what will be acceptable and what won't
they've barely noticed that the time is ripe
for them to shake off the din
of a pack of hounds that has caught their scent
and take in that enormity just as I've taken in
how my own DNA is 87% European and East Asian 13%.
So accustomed had they now grown
to a low-level human hum that, despite the almost weekly atrocity
in which they'd lost one of their own
to a wheeled blade, they followed the herd towards this eternal city
as if they'd had a collective change of heart.
My own heart swells now as I watch him nibble on a shoot
of blaeberry or heather while smoothing out a chart
by which he might divine if our Newark-bound 757 will one day overshoot
the runway about which there so often swirled
rumors of Messerschmitts.
Clapper-lugged, cleft-lipped, he looks for all the world
as if he might never again put up his mitts
despite the fact that he shares a Y chromosome
with Niall of the Nine Hostages,
never again allow his om
to widen and deepen by such easy stages,
never relaunch his campaign as melanoma has relaunched its campaign
in a friend I once dated,
her pain rising above the collective pain
with which we've been inundated
as this one or that has launched an attack
to the slogan of "Brits Out" or "Not an Inch"
or a dull ack-ack
starting up in the vicinity of Ballynahinch,
looking for all the world as if he might never again get into a fluster
over his own entrails,
never again meet luster with luster
in the eye of my dying friend, never establish what truly ails
another woman with a flesh wound
found limping where a hare has only just been shot, never again bewitch
the milk in the churn, never swoon as we swooned
when Marilyn's white halter-top dress blew up in The Seven Year Itch,
in a flap now only as to whether
we should continue to tough it out till
something better comes along or settle for this salad of blaeberry and heather
and a hint of common tormentil.
P. Muldoon from "maggot"
A Hare at Aldergrove
A hare standing up at last on his own two feet
in the blasted grass by the runway may trace his lineage to the great
assembly of hares that, in the face of what might well have looked like defeat,
would, in 1963 or so, migrate
here from the abandoned airfield at Nutt's Corner, not long after Marilyn Monroe
overflowed from her body stocking
in Something's Got to Give. These hares have themselves so long been given to row
against the flood that when a King
of the Hares has tried to ban bare knuckle fighting, so wont
are they to grumble and gripe
about what will be acceptable and what won't
they've barely noticed that the time is ripe
for them to shake off the din
of a pack of hounds that has caught their scent
and take in that enormity just as I've taken in
how my own DNA is 87% European and East Asian 13%.
So accustomed had they now grown
to a low-level human hum that, despite the almost weekly atrocity
in which they'd lost one of their own
to a wheeled blade, they followed the herd towards this eternal city
as if they'd had a collective change of heart.
My own heart swells now as I watch him nibble on a shoot
of blaeberry or heather while smoothing out a chart
by which he might divine if our Newark-bound 757 will one day overshoot
the runway about which there so often swirled
rumors of Messerschmitts.
Clapper-lugged, cleft-lipped, he looks for all the world
as if he might never again put up his mitts
despite the fact that he shares a Y chromosome
with Niall of the Nine Hostages,
never again allow his om
to widen and deepen by such easy stages,
never relaunch his campaign as melanoma has relaunched its campaign
in a friend I once dated,
her pain rising above the collective pain
with which we've been inundated
as this one or that has launched an attack
to the slogan of "Brits Out" or "Not an Inch"
or a dull ack-ack
starting up in the vicinity of Ballynahinch,
looking for all the world as if he might never again get into a fluster
over his own entrails,
never again meet luster with luster
in the eye of my dying friend, never establish what truly ails
another woman with a flesh wound
found limping where a hare has only just been shot, never again bewitch
the milk in the churn, never swoon as we swooned
when Marilyn's white halter-top dress blew up in The Seven Year Itch,
in a flap now only as to whether
we should continue to tough it out till
something better comes along or settle for this salad of blaeberry and heather
and a hint of common tormentil.
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