stars

ciphers obscured by clouds shooting, failing at shining, losers wearing ripped euro-trash jeans and scuffed biker boots streaking across a velvet curtain smoking hand-rolled cigarettes in the lounge at the airport in Rome impervious to the fake gods that named them typical teenagers planets are the real deal, solid  

at the monastery

jet lagged. in the middle of the night, on Italian TV, a subterranean dream. i click through the channels to find: Whitney Houston music videos. there’s always Whitney Houston videos on Italian TV, i don’t know why; chaste adverts for pleasure devices; a sexy demonstration of a non-stick frying pan; an Italian commentary about a … Read moreat the monastery

man, falling

at the pool, there’s a man with a beautiful front crawl; each stroke flows effortlessly into the next and he breathes on the count of four. his turns are perfectly timed. at the end of the open swim, he ducks under the ropes, crossing the lanes until he reaches the ladder. that’s when the lifeguard … Read moreman, falling

an argument

“let’s get a dog.” “we don’t have room in the flat.” “how about a small dog? we could fit it in, couldn’t we?” “but i like big dogs.” “listen. dog’s a dog. faithful. i ever tell you about the first time i saw you? your heels were too high and you were knock-kneed from the … Read morean argument