Going to the Edge of the Land
We drove and drove, taking rest under Australian weeds
the comfort station had a toilet but no running water, hold it
no coffee no ice cream
ample apologies: “I know you’re not from here,”
said the shamed young woman, “It’s not always this bad.”
(we are from here, everywhere is here/bad)
Our sandwiches were good though
eaten by the monastery watching butterflies
until a Vespa drove us away with its buzz
onwards out toward the edge.
The decision made itself; no amount of my worrying could stop us now
we drove down dirt country roads twisted like treesnakes backtracking from tail to head
through card-playing villages and go-home rentals
in the stuffy midafternoon we found it
the vision from on high among the ruins
the glaringly irreal parking area
past it all, sturdy and calm we walked
out to the lakes where tiny boys captured tiny fish for the aquarium
and the trail got soft
Look, this mountain has a hole
no time for a game on the guano white checkerboard
Don’t look back
walk clear to the tightrope between everything and eternity
it’s always closer than you think
as we slowly melted into sugary sun tea
and talked of house construction.
I will never forget that bath
dipped in gold lifelikenessless
the laughter of gravity towels
finding ourselves as we knew each other seventeen years ago
grown tingling holding hands
Back on Sicilian sand.
Sensitivity Training, California, 1970
“Everybody sit crosslegged and look into
your partner’s eyes for as long as you want or can,
and then we’ll talk about it.”
in the meantime, handsome Charlie …
It’s not true of course
that another person can see
into your soul through your eyes
however
it’s my private soul, get away.
It’s not true that you can fall in love
with a person just by looking into each other’s eyes
for a long time
I mean like 30 minutes without blinking
and thinking
feeling
I didn’t know what
whoever she is
who is she?
human connection, platonic love
does my erection show
what do you see?
mere pupil and iris
deep tenor though
we were not on acid
it’s a trap
they’re spies after secrets, names, intelligence
light brown, hazelnut speckled
resist, count backwards
don’t give in
nothing good down that well, trolls or spiders, yet I’m not positive
what do you want
information?
my third eye giving me the third degree
scaring the shit out of me.
Death of a Sentient Being
In the end, he died
he began foaming at the mouth
eyes flipped up
none of his family knew
what the hell to do
a neighbor woman sat on the floor
held his head like the Madonna
as all stood around watching
him finally shut up.
refuse to say hello when we meet in the stairs
I loudly repeat myself up into his hideous smirk
I talk to him a lot actually
explain why he is so nauseating
I try to rehabilitate him
coerce him into obedience
threaten him with legal action (oooh, that’ll scare him)
I threaten him with violence
lots of violence (I break his nose so easily blood gushes)
I spit on him and all, on their graves, his ancestors
leave him for last, torture and slowly cut off limbs
until he’s all gone, screams of agony echo during the work
I’m sorry he’s made me do.
I saw that in a movie.
but tenant meetings involve other people
horning in on our intimacy
they bitch about him too
almost as strongly as I do or more, I hold my tongue
others hate him as strongly as I do
but he is closer to me, next door
he is mine
I hear him walking in the house he stole by fraud
I hear him slam the door – blam, like a cherry bomb
in the middle of the night
like the door of the foreign legion fort, Fort Alamo
awaiting the final attack –
death and defeat await
as he skids his furniture about on tile
clanging into the clanging night.
So my question is, the question is:
Is it proper etiquette
to thank the one
who taught you to hate
who channeled and strengthened
your natural rage
is this maturity,
having enemies,
a blessing disguised
and low?
Our War is Over
As Melanie said, “There’s nothing nicer than an unnecessary peace song.”
Fear-weary niños jumping at the Indochina piñata
Rooftop chopper finale folly
Brimming holy roller arks
yet to embark
just the latest fad
impressed
by CBS
We didn’t know where that tension came from
until it went away
In a California forest sanctuary
we stood with our comrades priests teachers brothers and sisters
in a harmony circle with our arms entangled, crossed in front, joined beside
patches of snow on the ground
some heads up, some down,
eyes open/closed, breathing normally
humming
praise for pacifism
Our developmentally-impaired childhood finally complete:
You can sleep now, Jim Morrison.
Sirens
Since they built the new whitehospital nearby whitevans
Whewww, all day and all night
and summer hillfires so the redtrucks accompanied
by several rushcars, and bulletproof bluebullets
accompanying the bigwigs out for a pizza and brews
or back home to read the caper paper in their hunker bunkers
the clops racing here and there, the green suits, white coats
But I hate worst of all the larms, the shriek carlarms
and the shriekier houselarms,
kids screaming fathers cussing dogs yelping vespas buzzing motorboats jetskis filuas ferraris deliverytrucks construction work garbagetrucks vendors jackhammers busted mufflers roosters low-flyers metalsaws churchbells fireworks muzak sliding bar chairs at z in the morning,
telef… four floors down
televish.. two buildings over, hey yous
HEY YOUS!
Turn yourself the fuck off.
You’re scaring the evil spirits out of me
The Sirene of Sicilia
calling
calling this young sailor
bashing me slashing me thrashing me
ON THE ROCKS
suck(l)ing me down the inverted breast
WHIRLYPOOL
into the pressurized cabin underground
1st wah wah to final flatline
dropping clods like frogs
the long silence implies the sirens,
Therefore
I abhor the slutty noise, yet it is
so painfully dirty sexy
I cannot resist.
E. Martin Pedersen, originally from San Francisco, has lived in eastern Sicily for over 35 years. He teaches English at the local university. His poetry has appeared in Ink in Thirds, Mused, Oddville, Former People, The Bitchin’ Kitsch and others. Martin is an alum of the Squaw Valley Community of Writers. He blogs at: emartinpedersenwriter.blogspot.it
Cover image: Photo by Melina Piccolo.
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