Sunday coffee (ed.)
Posted: Mon Jul 19, 2010 12:46 pm
rev. 2
I nod, say buongiorno, (you and I,
stranger, are dangling on a cliff
of self-awakenings). We are heroes,
brave, non-conventional, you know,
life isn't really heroic, it's quite tragic,
(tell you the truth), but yes,
today the sun shines.
I went to the Vatican with my mother
many years ago, couldn't pray.
We missed our bus.
On the wall, a poetically-drawn
lakeshore on canvas with a bright
yellow background, reds and pinks.
(Sunsets illuminate my eyes).
I look for words in a glance.
The music box is the sun,
the moon, all of the sky.
I've heard about Sardinian
shepherds reciting Latin poetry
from memory. Inside the radio
a man says: artists fear
face-to-face communication.
So, if you express
emotions too dramatically,
are you crazy?
If you don't, maybe you can at least
squeeze the cold from your heart
like toothpaste.
Or count the drops of coffee
spilled on a white tablecloth.
The men sitting in the cafe
start playing cards.
rev. 1
Some meanings elude the awakenings
of self. I nod, say buongiorno, (you and I,
stranger, are dangling on a cliff
of those awakenings).
We are heroes,
brave, non-conventional, you know,
life isn't really heroic, it's quite tragic,
(tell you the truth), but yes,
today the sun shines.
I went to the Vatican with my mother
many years ago, couldn't pray.
We missed our bus.
On the wall, a poetically-drawn
lakeshore on canvas with a bright yellow
background, reds and pinks.
(Sunsets illuminate my eyes).
I look for words
in a glance.
The music box is the sun,
the moon, all of the sky.
I've heard about Sardinian
shepherds reciting Latin poetry
from memory. Inside the radio
a man says: artists fear
face-to-face communication.
So, if you express
emotions too dramatically,
you're crazy. If you don't,
you can at least
squeeze the cold from your heart
like toothpaste.
The length of this poem
depends on how many drops of coffee
are spilled on a white tablecloth.
Too many evaporate,(and that's not
always mysterious or funny).
The men sitting in the cafe start playing cards.
---
Some meanings elude the awakenings
of self. I nod to the first person I meet,
say buongiorno, (you and I, stranger,
are dangling on the cliffs of those awakenings).
I might be a brave hero, a non-conventional one,
you know, life isn't heroic, it's quite tragic,
(tell you the truth), but today the sun
is shining. Yes, I've been to the Vatican,
couldn't pray, then I missed my bus. On the wall
a poetically-drawn lakeshore on canvas
with a bright yellow background, reds
and pinks. (Sunsets illuminate my eyes).
I've heard about Sardinian shepherds reciting
Latin poetry from memory. I look for
the words I hear in a glance, a dance step,
a song. The first notes are usually missing
because the music box is the moon,
the stars or all of the sky. Inside the radio
a man says: artists fear face-to-face
communication. So, if you express emotions
too dramatically you're crazy, if you don't,
you can at least squeeze the cold from
your heart like toothpaste. The length of this poem
depends on how many drops of coffee are spilled
on a white tablecloth. Too many evaporate,
and that's not always mysterious or funny.
The men sitting in the cafe start playing cards.
---
I nod, say buongiorno, (you and I,
stranger, are dangling on a cliff
of self-awakenings). We are heroes,
brave, non-conventional, you know,
life isn't really heroic, it's quite tragic,
(tell you the truth), but yes,
today the sun shines.
I went to the Vatican with my mother
many years ago, couldn't pray.
We missed our bus.
On the wall, a poetically-drawn
lakeshore on canvas with a bright
yellow background, reds and pinks.
(Sunsets illuminate my eyes).
I look for words in a glance.
The music box is the sun,
the moon, all of the sky.
I've heard about Sardinian
shepherds reciting Latin poetry
from memory. Inside the radio
a man says: artists fear
face-to-face communication.
So, if you express
emotions too dramatically,
are you crazy?
If you don't, maybe you can at least
squeeze the cold from your heart
like toothpaste.
Or count the drops of coffee
spilled on a white tablecloth.
The men sitting in the cafe
start playing cards.
rev. 1
Some meanings elude the awakenings
of self. I nod, say buongiorno, (you and I,
stranger, are dangling on a cliff
of those awakenings).
We are heroes,
brave, non-conventional, you know,
life isn't really heroic, it's quite tragic,
(tell you the truth), but yes,
today the sun shines.
I went to the Vatican with my mother
many years ago, couldn't pray.
We missed our bus.
On the wall, a poetically-drawn
lakeshore on canvas with a bright yellow
background, reds and pinks.
(Sunsets illuminate my eyes).
I look for words
in a glance.
The music box is the sun,
the moon, all of the sky.
I've heard about Sardinian
shepherds reciting Latin poetry
from memory. Inside the radio
a man says: artists fear
face-to-face communication.
So, if you express
emotions too dramatically,
you're crazy. If you don't,
you can at least
squeeze the cold from your heart
like toothpaste.
The length of this poem
depends on how many drops of coffee
are spilled on a white tablecloth.
Too many evaporate,(and that's not
always mysterious or funny).
The men sitting in the cafe start playing cards.
---
Some meanings elude the awakenings
of self. I nod to the first person I meet,
say buongiorno, (you and I, stranger,
are dangling on the cliffs of those awakenings).
I might be a brave hero, a non-conventional one,
you know, life isn't heroic, it's quite tragic,
(tell you the truth), but today the sun
is shining. Yes, I've been to the Vatican,
couldn't pray, then I missed my bus. On the wall
a poetically-drawn lakeshore on canvas
with a bright yellow background, reds
and pinks. (Sunsets illuminate my eyes).
I've heard about Sardinian shepherds reciting
Latin poetry from memory. I look for
the words I hear in a glance, a dance step,
a song. The first notes are usually missing
because the music box is the moon,
the stars or all of the sky. Inside the radio
a man says: artists fear face-to-face
communication. So, if you express emotions
too dramatically you're crazy, if you don't,
you can at least squeeze the cold from
your heart like toothpaste. The length of this poem
depends on how many drops of coffee are spilled
on a white tablecloth. Too many evaporate,
and that's not always mysterious or funny.
The men sitting in the cafe start playing cards.
---