Guernica Editions

What are the excuses that bring a man to count the sentence beats that his body pronounces? He could have, he should have won his bread and butter dancing in some cabaret. At least, there, he would have helped the working man and woman to forget their fatigue. But no, there he is digging into the paper fabric with the hope of hearing, like an ethnologist, the echoes of an ancient consciousness. Out of bounds, uomo fuori scopo, this man has produced a lengthy page bearing the title The Irrelevant Man. The bustle comes from paper being scratched. The events here revealed are stories, traits, attacks, blows, screams. What he would not do to lift himself from the tiles in the mansions of poetry.

I've walked into a Western film. / Dressed to the hilt as a cowboy. / There, the desert; here, the city. / No holster, no derringer. / My face unshaven, my hair uncut. / The sun, high noon, too hot to bear. / No cloud in the sun-setting sky. / No truth deep in my pockets.