My Sesquipedalian

“Upon Observing a Cloud Pass by the Moon with Unusual Speed”

a slow poison
courses through their veins
They eat it each morning for breakfast
Take it with tea
And spread it on their bread at night.

It swirls in the coal dust
deep underground
and ekes from the factory’s
asbestos filled walls
and floors.

It eats away at the soles
of their shoes
And bleeds from severed chicken heads
drop by tiny drop
until

Sunday morning a single speck
is found
underneath the pressed collar
of your best
blue shirt.

At that moment
the infection has spread
run its course
infiltrated even the day
that’s sacred

symptoms start
with an irritating buzz
right above each tender ear
that increases in volume
around children

The solitude sought
to assuage your blight
only serves to tighten upon your chest
like a noose
worn and ready

Soon its to drink you turn
a tonic, surely, and, of course –
only one;
only two;
then I’m done.

Every spoonful
every sip
crashes to the bottom of your gut
like a load of bricks;
spiteful, sorry bricks.

And you try to vomit this poison out
reach back into your throat
and spout
onto wife, and son, and daughter
and friend.

In this way
“the neighborhood goes”
As if a dismal cloud
refuses to remove
the shade

And every night
to get yourself to sleep
you tell yourself (and your wife)
“just one more year
and we can leave all this behind.”

But then of course
his leg he breaks
chasing a lizard
or some other useless thing;
more poison.

Until one day
you reach far, far back
in the medicine cabinet
and, with a decision in your hands
you think.

Now. Right now.
Either finish its work or
take a deep breath –
and blow this town.

A mischievous wind
blows tonight
whispering insanities
like “happiness,”
and “freedom”

So you run into the bedroom
(you must run or you’ll stop
and think)
and wake your wife, and say:
“Tonight.”

It must be tonight!
before this venom does its work!
Let us fly into oblivion
with daughter and son
until glory rises

You look into eyes
that thought you would never ask
and hurry children
who finally know what it means
to be excited.

Into car
your life is packed.
vestiges of torment
years of self-destruction
lie in ashes on the hearth.

To the back seat you turn
and ask your youngest,
“North, South, East or West?”
Without a moments hesitation:
West.

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Of a year gone by…

I recently reviewed the past 9 months of Facebook activity on my profile and recorded some of my favorite of my statuses. Here I have compiled them into a poem – it’s still a first draft and could use some revision – I welcome feedback.

Anyways I kinda like how it turned out. They are more or less chronological but organized into coherent stanzas. Hope you like it too. I guess I meant for it to be a kind of cockpit through which you could lyrically fly through my life. 😀

“Status”

[insert name]…

Is crouched like a dragon over time’s hoard.

Is a sugar glider.

Is proud of today’s sunburn!

Dookie Bootie: Target Acquired.

Has let his room become the hall’s trash receptacle…

Is molding.

–

Had his nose licked last night.

Is the Mad Hatter.

Is margaritas and molten lava.

Puts on his dancin’ shoes!

Is tripping the light fantastic.

Wants a night of vague adventure!

Threw a party on the way to the bank.

Just ripped his favorite jeans during a chat roulette dance party.

Has become the party singularity.

Is all but Hulking out at this point.

Smells something burning…

Let it burn.

–

Woke up with a green traffic cone in the back of the car…

Wants to give a shout out to the lace panties on the lawn.

Is a new soul.

Does the blind-man birthday dance with Roast Beefy.

Is rather fond of Blue Jesus.

Just learned to ride that bicycle to trick you.

Painted a giant Tasmanian devil today.

Is balancing his urge to heal and urge to kill…

Es el tigre chino!

Is believed to have Caesar’s ambition.

–

Is still tripping the light fantastic.

Has dangerous legs.

Is like sex on the beaches.

Is an artist.

Gets less cool the more he talks to humans.

Is the bridge jumping friend that your parents warned you about.

Is a sesquipedalian.

Kind of looks like Jesus with his hair pulled back…

–

Was wooed by a man in Venice.

Climbed lava by the sea.

Just MacGyvered a scarf from on top of an Amsterdam bus stop!

Saw a giant orange penguin. In Sicily.

Partook of the Polish Pancake Party.

Haunts the crypts of the Vatican.

Is in love with Zingarella.

Hitched a ride home.

–

Wins it all on the river.

Got his strut back.

Is a secret sauce intake manifold.

Likes mysterious things in his apartment.

Girls only like me because I can dance.

Just had someone piss on his floor…

Could use a stiff drink…

Who is the one-eyed and luckless son of shame who has not yet prepared my pipe?!

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Moments

Since we last spoke I:
• Climbed a volcano
• Woke on a train to the sunrise over the Mediterranean
• Haunted the crypts of the Vatican
• Dined in a restaurant that had to pay pizzo to the mafia
• Shared my hotel room with a stranger in Rome
• Cleaned up said stranger’s urine off my floor at 4:30 in the morning.
• Shared peach juice at the Pantheon
• Had the best espresso in Italy
• Trod where chariots raced.
• Had a 5 year old Dutch child make me Stroop Pancakes
• MacGyvered a scarf from off an Amsterdam bus stop (using, of course, random bicycle parts)
• Watched a season of Glee
• Turned 21.

~
So here I sit in the Vatican Square. I’m watching the lit window of the pope’s study as he composes a sermon for tomorrow.

So here I stare in wonder at Caravaggio’s Penitent Madeleine, her shame recorded in my sketchbook.

So here I stand on the edge of Etna’s crater. Lava flows sprung from here and run for miles to the sea, even adorning the walls of the university.

So here I sit in Catania, Sicily. The buildings are made of lava and the city run by the mafia.

So here I draw on the lava stone by the sea. I protect my ladies from the “sketchy” Sicilians.

So here I dance at the Stag’s Head Pub. Italians upon the bar and I upon the floor.

So here I sit in the airport, first to Rome and then to Amsterdam. A series of moments wash over me: Cards in the hotel lobby in Catania. Drinks by Truvi Fountain. Waking in the olive grove in Assisi. Barbecue at the monastery. Café at the bus station. Wine in Piazza del Campo. Lunch in the garden. Sleeping on the Italian sea. Miming at my first dinner with my Italian family. Waving goodbye to my family at the Knoxville airport. These will be the pillars of my memory of these months!
~

“Everywhere I go… There’s something to remind me of another place and time.”

A day in uptown Amsterdam. Antique shops, art galleries, and a famous comic book store. A flurry of biciclyes becomes bobbing ghosts as the sky dims. Twilight reflects in the canals—then Christmas from the trees. A teenager asks me to buy weed for him. A mother sings with her child as ride past. A transvestite shows me his(?) vintage clothing shop. A fur clad man brandishes a pink guitar. A college student juggles at the hostel bar.

Skating rinks. Bicycle parking garages. Houseboats. Street performers. Stroop waffles. Tickle fights. ABBA. A corduroy jacket. A scarf. An existential moment (or three). A great weekend.

~
So here I sit, three hours early for my flight back to Rome. “…or we will proceed to offload your baggage…” From Rome to home. From home to Home.

So here I sit, on the balcony of our favorite café on the piazza del Camp, sipping scotch on my 21st birthday, sharing thoughts on Dutch and American culture…
~

I spent yesterday with Kevin Holland. The whole day. 13 hours. And I wasn’t bored for a minute – there are few with whom I’ve done the same. Tuscan fields, cigars and wine on the Campo, pizze salsiccia and good conversation – there are fewer still…

~
So here I sit, eagerly awaiting dinner with my Italian family; more eagerly awaiting dinner with MY family. Three more weeks. Less. Pienza. Florence. Venice. Just a few more moments left… Just a few more chances to overuse ellipses… See you soon…

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Number 13, Via Celso Cittadini

October 29.

Halloween’s festivities begin. After eating with my Italian family, Maria and Ilio (both of 80 years), I leave to celebrate Joanna’s birthday. A dense fog descended onto Siena that morning, and it has not cleared yet by night. Fall’s chill gnaws at my bones despite my thick jacket and the club is sparse even at 1 am. Only wine is served – red.

October 30.

I wake at eleven to an empty house – not unusual for the morning, if you could call it that. Our mist still hangs at my window even in early afternoon. The day passes without nuance, and Halloween continues with dinner in the city center and late into the night. Every dog is quiet, every shutter closed.

October 31.

Noon this time, the house dark – windows closed. The fog has turned jet and threatens rain. Having spent my afternoon in a warm bar, at seven I must stash my books at the house. Where normally dinner would be underway sits in silence. I haven’t seen my family in two days, and, curious, I call out to the dark to no reply. Knocking softly on their cracked bedroom door, it swings open to reveal the two in bed, embracing. A stench hangs in the air, 48 hours old.

As I gape in disbelief, Maria’s right eye slowly opens, visibly bloodshot even in the near perfect darkness.

 

“Mangia…”

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God’s metronome – and His music.

The advent of autumn comforts me. In this land that seems so alien it connects me back to home. Much the same, the rain and overcast sky remind me that I’m still on this same earth – still coexisting. Until this week it had only rained four times since September third…
With October has come a series of Friday trips to Florence. For 4 straight weekends we spend the day visiting the subject of our studies, touching where geniuses touched and walking where masters walked. I’ve found an interesting friend in these visits; our Italian Cultural History professor, James Douglas (who, coincidentally, is a descendent of he who was to be the downfall of Oscar Wilde) has shown excessive hospitality to me when I wish to not return so hastily to Siena. A film critic and film studies professor by preference, James boasts a library of over 1,300 DVDs and blu-rays, from which I have continued a cinematic education that I embarked on voluntarily last semester (beginning with, of course, Citizen Kane). His cave-like television room has since hosted several engaging conversations (which, like parenthetical statements, are my bread and butter).
Any other free time I spend on first hand Italian cultural studies (a.k.a. people watching). You will be unsurprised that my favorites are the children; I had a couple of 13ish year old sit behind me on the bus home yesterday and watch South Park with me. The 7 year old wearing his gelato like a badge of honor on the bridge at Florence flashed me a fondente smile. A two year old brandished a play pizza cutter at his five-year-old cohorts, subsequently blessing his grandmother with no fewer than four crying fits. Una bella regazza paused for me to sketch her at San Galgano. The old man who refuses to beg sits outside his favorite church every day, never smiling but never frowning either. Ilio sleeps on his couch in front of the television every night, and upon waking he visits me in my room without fail, remarking on my lack of a girlfriend and obsessive study habits (which, in fact, are anything but. He just assumes any time I’m on the computer that I am study, which is quite contrary to the truth).
Whenever I ask my father if he could have chosen any profession what would he have done he invariably replies “a philanthropist.” Punto. The more I live, the more I see, the more I understand what he means—and the more I realize how much I am like him.

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Disturbing the peace

Hokay, here’s the SportsCenter version:

-Went to a church service in the chapel built around the original sword in the stone.

-Was painting in Piazza de San Francesco and watched a monk (in full monk garb mind you) play soccer with some 10 year olds.

-Got a tattoo.

-Toasted a proper Guinness in an Irish pub on its 250th anniversary.

-Hitched a ride home by faking a limp. Thumb effectiveness increases ten fold!

-Just kidding I didn’t get a tattoo.

I have a hierarchy of time management: I play when I should be taking care of stuff, I take care of stuff when I should be working, and I work when I should be sleeping—I  usually listen to music throughout.

Siena is interrupting my hierarchy. Free time – Internet = Westley doing what he’s supposed to (which is ironic because part of Westley is not doing what he’s supposed to. Therefore by Westley doing what he’s supposed to he is not doing what he’s supposed to. All great truth comes in paradox. Suck it Sonja).

Right, except that right now my book on Italian culture is making me suicidally bored. So I’m listening to a combination of “Rock Me Amadeus” by Falco and “Concerto For Harpsichord, Strings & Continuo In B Flat Major” by Bach whilst dodging my homework and writing this (I think it shall come through in my writing style), thus bringing balance back to my force.

Italian life has brought about many changes to my routine. Lunches have been taken alone, as have walks and nights. Anyone who knows me knows that solitude is, in general, not my closest bedfellow.

It goes back to my paradox shbeal. Part of my personality is spontaneity—I’d go as far as to say it defines a large part of my personality (as does being hyper-social). However, living with an 80 year old couple generally necessitates a strong presence of the routine (and, with the language barrier, solitude). Therefore two values that I often define myself by are hereby revoked, probably for the duration of my stay.

The consequences of this condition may be one or both of the following: 1) Optimistically, having practiced spontaneity for so long, it, for me, had actually become routine (as had my constant sociality); therefore by deviating from my norm I will actually be fulfilling my nature, somewhat paradoxically. 2) Existentially, this semester, having stripped me of what definition of myself I thought were most concrete, is meant to reveal to me that I am defining myself in the wrong terms. The former being my first epiphany and the latter my second, I am inclined to agree with the most recent.

Moreover, if I take the route of divine Will, it begs even more questions. If I am defining myself incorrectly, am I to discover the truth? Or is the point that defining myself is folly since I am defined by Christ? In this case I think that both yes’s can coexist, for my aforementioned drive to define myself was in lieu of doing so in Christ.

I apologize for my froggy logic—suffer me another leap. Consider for a moment the classical formula for adventure. Everyone wants a grand odyssey, but no one ever expects that theirs will take them into Hades. The problem is (uh oh, paradox time – BURN!), we must degrade before we can upgrade: the deeper you trek, the greater your triumph. Well ladies and gents, being divested from your identity, one that you were (at least semi-) secure in ain’t easy. Here’s hoping that this blog is the beginning of my trip up and out and to VICTORY! Huzzah!!! (That means party time at Odysseus’ crib. Throwin’ up an ‘oh hell yea’ to all you Vandy kids.)

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It’s been one week since you looked at me…

First week out of the states, I managed to:

Lose my debit card.
Get lost in the bus system for almost 3 hours.
Get Jan kicked out of his apartment.
Find my way onto the Siena rooftops.
Be the only American in my group of friends.
Figure out how to order espresso in Italian
Talk about politics with my host family in Italian.
Go to a party in an old monastery.
Hitch a ride home.
Give my last .53 cents to a man playing violin on the street.

So, yea. I’ve been busy.

This weeks musing center around my counterintuitive desires to fit in – as opposed to a near obsession to stand out at home. Graffiti scrawled “Yankee Go Home” at the bus depot reinforced such sentiments…
I don’t know – I feel so, tolerated. For example, I feel rude not knowing Italian and forcing the Sienese for speak a foreign language in their own city. They are fiercely proud of their heritage, and it seems almost insulting to remind them of the fleeting nature of their traditions by not knowing their native tongue.
My attitude change, I believe, reflects the change in basic ideology from moving to a new country. Whereas America’s capitalistic system is all about freedom and individualism and self-determination, Italy (especially Siena) exists in a homeostasis of history and progress, tradition and a new generation.
Part of this isn’t America’s fault: it is not old enough to have as rich a history as Italia. On the other hand, however, observing differences between our country and this makes it clear to me that America is much more self-minded than most European countries.
As a result of our insistence on individual freedoms, I believe that America has “gone off the deep end” of the pool of liberty and actually forgotten what it feels like to be a part of a community, both on an individual and societal scale.

Solidarity is second nature to these people, as it should be for us.

P.S. Email/Facebook me if you want the whole story on any of my first comments ☺

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A toast: To learning things the hard way.

Note to self: When airport security asks what the holes in the soles of your shoes are for, don’t say “the detonators.” Security has no sense of humor…

(Last time I was in an airplane I jumped out of it, but strangely I am more excited this time…)

So aside from some “random” extra screening at the airport flying to Europe went relatively smoothly. Oh!

Note to readers: Italian flight attendants are much more attractive than American flight attendants. Choose airlines accordingly.

Back to Italy:

Every part of Siena is so real it seems caricatured – I feel fake in a place so incredibly authentic. Kind of like how I feel dirty because all of the italians are so clean (like, OCD clean). My host family is an elderly couple in their late 70s or early 80s, and they, too, seem caricatured. Maria can’t be more than 4 ft. tall but sometimes I have trouble keeping up with her! And the cooking, OH! And her husband, Ilio, can’t be seen without a smile on his face (jolly I believe would be the word. And eyebrows like azalea bushes!). I’m sure that half the Italian coming out of his mouth is making jokes about me. Like last night when I was lost in the Siena bus system for two and a half hours and ended up walking home…

And so ended my first Italian adventure!

Today’s goal: understand the bus system…

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