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PUBLISHED: March 2, 2020


Pink is the Tuscan sunset. Pink
Are the Vietnamese monk pates
Bobbing under Piero’s True Cross.
Pink is plenty, pink is joy.

My pelvis is pink.
I wrap my pink legs
Around the man who calls me cake.
The lights twinkle pink in Fiesole.

The landscape in Italy
Is all spoken for.
The pink man reminds me that
He likes the word whore.
The pink peony blooms are
So heavy they’re pulling
Down their own stalks.
This garden is astonishing.
The man who paints bouquets
Sits on the terrace & draws
The dying purple iris in the silver pitcher.
He paints & smokes & touches
His cock & looks at himself
In the windowpane.
He drinks a bottle of champagne
& paints the background teal.
He doesn’t know how to capture the
Reflections in the silver of the pitcher.
The lights twinkle pink in Fiesole.

He wears pink shirts.
He screams pink.
He pinks me so hard
I have scar tissue.
But, In bed, it’s theater.
I drink Earl Grey tea with cream.
I am reminded,
The pink man likes obedience.
The Florentine moon is behind a fig leaf.
The flesh in paintings.
The word pain is in painting.
The wounds in the paintings
Are repaired with mulberry tissue.
But from the side you can
Always still see, the wounds

In the canvas like mouths.
The mouths in the paintings
Part like wounds.
The paintings are of the
Wounds in the flesh.
The wounds on Christ are female.

The bodies of saints are broken apart
& stolen for worship.
You break apart & I repair you.
You steal my body & worship it.
Rabbit eyes are pink from panic.

I can’t get out of the dark;
Something is rotten in Denmark.
Pink is thrilling & pink is chilling.
Pink is my darkness, clearly.
I swallow your pink entirely.

Florence violently seized Fiesole,
& Rome bullied Florence.
The origin of the word bully is lover.
Florence is a flowering sword.
The sack of Rome, the siege of Florence.
The lights twinkle pink in Fiesole.

You altered the ethics of my body.
Orto in Italian is garden.
In Spanish, it’s asshole.
That about sums it up, you said.

The goddess of war is
The goddess of poetry.
They both spill blood,
Pink & red.

You broke apart & I restored you.
You broke my heart & I adored you.
The statue of the court dwarf
Straddling a turtle in the Boboli
Garden’s mouth is full of white spiderweb.
I use my mouth, but not to speak.

My fingers are stained black from artichokes.
My neck is sore from where you choked me.

Lord, please increase my bewilderment.

The god of ecstasy is also the god of rage.
I climb inside you &
You scream me born.

Florence is the birthplace
Of the vanishing point.



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