The Makings of Tongues

Cocktails, cocktails, strong and bright

fuel a stormy cloud of teenage girls

from Florida. Drunk

on their fathers' money and

foreigners' mouths

full of utterances they don't

try to understand.

Each phoneme wasted is a decade

of rain, a century of wind

tearing at the mortar

between our few

stones of

dignity.

Snarky side note after cocky quip,

the thin, pasty California boys

tear out the few

tiny stitches

of respectful

cultural interest

left embroidered

on the edge

of a stripe

on the

point

of a

star.

With a few moments' conversation,

a line

bold and sturdy

as the ancient walls

that stand, encircling cities,

separating us

from them

uncrumbles from the blocks

scattered on the ground.

It stands, sturdy as the remnants

that refuse to shiver away from the bustle

of contemporary Rome.

A line

embracing me in appreciation.

Red, flushed with shame,

white, innocent of such crimes,

I float between the green pastures

of this foreign land

and the familiar blue seas

back home.

Non sono Italiana, ma

non sono più sola Americana.

Not My Favorite Day in Rome

My legs are all eaten up by bedbugs.
Some dude spat on me.

Staying positive for my last two days in Rome and in Italy.

But he seriously spat on me.

Protest in the Protestant Graveyard of Testaccio

This Grave
contains all that was Mortal
of a
YOUNG ENGLISH POET
Who
on his Death Bed
in the Bitterness of his Heart
at the malicious Power of his Enemies
Desired
these Words to be engraved on his Tomb Stone
Here Lies One
Whose Name was writ in Water
Feb 24th 1821
-----

At twenty-six, an unrecognized poet trapped in the charming call of Rome, John Keats died unhappy and resentful. At twenty-six, an unrecognized poet trapped in the charming call of Rome, I sat by this nameless grave in deep meditation. At first, I was not quite sure why I was called to meditate on this bench. Maybe it was just the heat. But these similarities gnawed at me in a way, making me wonder why this connection exists. Enemies. Malicious. Bitter. What a way to die. And there is it: no one should live, never mind die, in such a state of misery.

• Keep my heart open to sweetness.
• Remember that my enemies are powerless.
• Better yet, live without enemies.

But if Keats wrote his name in water, his name has been locked in the inescapable cycle and dissemination of water throughout all that lives on all of this earth. Maybe this inscription is not a humble erasure of identity and impact but a subtle implication of permanence and life-force. And there he lies, surrounded by loyal friends and accolades in a graveyard dedicated to foreign artists committed to Rome despite their segregation as non/Catholics. Perhaps Keats died in misery because he /Desired/ so thoroughly the recognition he would not live to see.

• Regard myself with genuine humility.