THE MY COLLECTIONS.

by graziano origa

Trying to write a poetry.

A poetry to the rain, to the flood,

to overflow. And for the tears.

And to my collections of Village Voice,

New Yorker, Life, Tempo and Abc.

Trying to look out to Vicenza country next-door neighbor with their drowned chicks and chickens.

Trying to use words like 'You there'.

But I'm in the red room with my paper up,

while my paper down are going away from me.

Covering up our names on the wet paper.

It is not even counselor Mr. twitter

or Mr. jocker tambourine man.

It will not be enough 100

or even 12 or 24 hours.

Near and far,

with no solidarity if not in thought.

I can just see myself

standing on the wild side of the hill.

Like some kind of crazy person.

Like a rare bird.

Taking this waltz.

(foto by joe zattere)