Italy

Here in Italy the buildings are the color

Of dead skin and the sky is “tragic”

And the rivers are brown and turbulent

And everybody is always stopping by

To say “Ciao!” and then “Ciao!”

We think a lot about emotion, chiefly

The emotion of love. There is much to cry about.

And after, sleep. One falls in love

So as not to fall asleep. I have just awakened

To the fact that I am not in love

And am about to fall asleep or write an opera

In which someone falls asleep and dies

Or write a letter to a friend or call somebody up

To meet me later for a drink. Maybe it’s too late.

Tomorrow I will go out and buy something to make me happy.

I remember standing in the train station in Pisa

Hoping to catch the sound of an American voice

In the crowd. It’s good to remember such things

When you think you haven’t “lived” enough

Because you need to learn not to regret

What you’ve never done. Fortunately, I remember

Everything that's ever happened to me.

I remember asking a woman I didn't know

Whether or not she was the person I was looking for

And she said, “Yes, much to my regret.”

That wasn’t difficult to remember

Because it just happened a few minutes ago.

Other things are harder. I don’t remember

Right away what I had for breakfast two weeks ago

Last Thursday or the specific date of my first

Masturbation, though I’m sure that with some effort

I could recover the lasting details. I remember

My father using a green hair tonic called “H-A,”

Which stood for “Hair Arranger.” I remember the night

My father tore out a big clump of my mother's hair

In an argument. They were drunk and I came out

Of my room in my pajamas and asked them to stop.

If I said I wanted to fall apart in someone’s arms

You would have to assume I was being sarcastic

And you would be right. No one has arms in which

I care to fall apart, at least not at the moment.

Tomorrow night I am going to see a play about

“A contemporary man in the process of falling apart.”

I think everyone falls apart about twenty times a day.

I’m still confused about why I mentioned Italy

At the beginning of this poem, especially since

It’s all a terrible lie. My students would say

It means “the poet does not know where he is;

Some catastrophe has distorted his perceptions.”

I am drowsy but happy and resemble the corner

Of a big empty room. I am drunk and staring

Into the bathtub. A lot of people are standing

Around listening to music. My fingers

Smell like cigarettes. I am wondering

If there is any way to describe the pleasure

Someone derives from seeing a man’s cock

Shoved up someone’s ass, or how one

Can go on like this, even after having given up

Completely to nervousness, and to death.

I remember the one night I spent on a ship.

The porters woke us at dawn. We stood

At the railing to sight the blue and transparent island

Gaping through mist in the distance. For breakfast,

We ate peaches. I hated the people I was with,

But I must have been incredibly stupid. We spent the day

On the island, seesawed in the park, and waded in the sea.

Source: In the Empire of the Air (Nightboat Books, 2016)