The poem that gives the book its name posits a creator making a world that runs on caffeine. This books moves back and forth in time so we see the world through the shifting perspective of a man who is moving through middle-age, feel his regret for all he has done and failed to do.
This is a work to read and savor as if it were a cup of excellent espresso. The sounds and smells and places that are connected with his childhood, his ancestors, and all the people he loves and treasures rise from these pages like the immensely satisfying aroma of baking bread. These poems needed to be written and this is a book not to be missed. Never peripheral to human experience, Fusco's poems are centered in the heart. Most vivid to this reader are the Italian men-men with names like Jake, Julio, and Jack —their games, passions, music, virtues and vices, brought memorably to life.
Caduceus is no longer accepting submissions. There are boards with rusty nails you might step on in the tall grass just over the fence. Forget that your cousin has thrown so many of your toys there.
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Wait at least thirty minutes after eating before you go in the water. Your well being is truly our only concern. Relax, now that we have told you these things, there is no reason to worry. Here the Venus of Umbrio and Olympia pause in transparent sundresses and halter tops,push strollers in high heels, and contemplate dabbling in watercolors or finger paint. Sometimes he sang along, a couple of bottles of Schaffer beer on the top of the former upright roller piano.
The roller spokes broken, most of the paper rollers sold or ripped, the family once sat around it together, sang on Saturday nights when their mom was sewing take home jobs from work. That was before the war and he and his three brothers joined the Navy, before they had come home and married, one by one, his sisters as well, before they started to have children, began to drift apart. At first I sat and listened, fetched beers as he played. Listened until he ran out of songs. My father leads, but we have memorized the way and do not venture ahead into the crowd with all the people in the street dazed in the heat of the place as if staggering.
It could be the reason the leaves are off all the trees, the pine needles as well, the evergreens green no more. Maybe there is no moon because there is no moon. I should have expected a black hole or inverted sphere sucking in all the cars, the telephone poles, the beach blankets, CNN News, the gangsters on the corner, everything.
Could I have slept through the screams and all the other sounds of ripping and crashing, politicians sucking wind, wind howling classical and country music, Miley Cyrus on her wrecking ball hitting the bricks on the way out of the Galaxy?
All my lost keys and books and socks, the high school yearbook, the Christmas card list whooshed away in a blink. We have been cordoned off, in a house.
Love poems: ‘For one night only naked in your arms’ - 14 poets pick their favourites
Please help the dwellers of this home rebuild again. Remain pleased with me God shall be pleased with me too. We shall meet again Excuse me, my voice is quivering I have been running Pray for me If I survive, the victory is ours If I die, the victory is ours I will fight for a few hours My time has come Pray for me The colours of the world are but naught- keheen, nothing. Baqi Na Keheen, Wallah Nothing else, really! Are you okay, lagyo? May I be sacrificed for you my dear!
Be steadfast and patient. Where else could one bury such incendiary acts of tenderness?
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Those who witness this act of witnessing desire to lose everything to this love. They gather around the Witness— a boat sailing across a sea of people—only to touch their bare feet and plant kisses on their foreheads].
The Lost Leader (poem)
Last words spoken nonetheless. Last words waging a war against time— aeons and empires smashed to smithereens. Excuse me. Last words spoken casually— I am fine, by the grace of God. Bas, Chalo Last words uttered with an ease that shall continue to haunt the revolutions and rotations of the earth, moon, sun and all the stars and their remnants, spinning galaxies, known and unknown Last words spoken such that death tastes like a journey— from one room to the next Last words of a body that is no more in exile, body that is no more an exile Last words that make a poem difficult Last words that make love unbearable Last words rebirthing departures as arrivals, ends as beginnings homes as tombs, streets as rivers walls as windows, corridors as bridges fire as flowers, longing as little boats twinkling far far away from the shores, cinders as keepsake, singed poems as testimonies, bullets in the chests and skulls as letters wombs as graves bodies as funeral wreaths curled around the dead.
Last words echoing across the gutted homes Last words inscribed against the falling walls Last words that make songs dissolve their cadence, metamorphosing into a cry, resounding the universe. Last words that beckon all words to assemble in grief ripping their apparels of meaning apart, donning instead shrouds of incomprehensibility, setting language free — Wai Last words that we know will not be the last.
If time had feet they would forget how to march ahead callously across the delusional seasons They would instead keep walking backwards back back reversing its own forgetful stampede. If time had a heart of the occupied it would forget to tick away, just like that. Poetry is Violent. Did you eat? Can I do anything for you?
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May I be sacrificed for you! Who spied on you, my dear? Is it a big house? Please pray for me! Hata, Wai. Are you okay? I have never sought anything from you Today, I shall ask you for one favour. Where are you? Do visit home once and stay over.
Are you fine? Hello, Hello Please speak the truth.