That First Year

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i wrote poems mainly that first year,picking garbage, doing dishes, humblingmyself among men who doubted me for having gottenthe world's publicity; what did i want with them, anyway?but after a year they saw my touch and needed an armaround them; men without women can use an italiannow and again to laugh christ off the cross and make him dance;make the devil look a bit was my mission, cheering them after i saw that they had notgod in every blessed fork and spoon, and signs weren't i got down to the business of living,of taking one to the zoo, another to a store, a coffeeshop; butalways they couldn't wait to get home; after awhile,thrilled as they were to get out, they gotfatigued in the world, like inmates, like loonies.

i too get tired now, going downtown, the noise and ruckus ofportuguese youths blasting and cruising, the correct andtheir brandies, the traffic money-making rush of decentmoms and dads in their illusion of houseand car, and literature taking itself seriously and anyonetaking something serious to get away from pointlessness --

i want to go back, like a loonie. not made for this.i want to stack chairs with grigoire inthe church and go to sleep and stare at the blankwall of the chapel and see christ's face. i want to singlike st. john rieti who became a saint just for singingto birds ...

i want to see everything as a sign: something dropped, a cloud going thewrong way; and not in a town where thereare signs everywhere, and no signs.

stillness is what i crave, like those loonies, who did nothingbut look for signs 'cause everything is a sign when you dolittle.i want grigoire's bees, anthony's galoshes galumphingpast my cell window, the scrape of chairs at breakfastand walking down corridors with space between eachother in case the saints wanted to get through.

silly things. i want to go home.i wait for everything but godnow; like all the others i make use ofhis creation and forget --to wait for him ... just wait for him,worry that he'll take me, just to get attention;that's what the world is, a sleep-waiting;once i was awake and nothing-doingand when he asked me to get us a coffee, i would --otherwise we would just sit together, god and iwith eyes that penetrated.

behind trees and things, i feel that world that's ours,and loonie brothers playing hide-and-seek withbutterflies;my madmen, my crazies; like youi can't be away for far too long; wherever you are, waiting,in death or hayfields,call me "in-free" before dusk.

© Pier Giorgio Di Cicco