Kit Kelen #662 - Venice

662

Venice

principles

it is not amenable to maps

(though of these there are an infinite number)

the hatred of tourists is a deep thing

it's a long way back

not hard to understand

projectiles of a language pass

we will call them manifestations

all ways must be seen as a circle

saints are the souls of tourists

who never found a way out

they are looking down on all comers

marble, plaster

beggars vanish up their way

residents are their descendants

it is called a GPS – the eyes all in the hand

but no one has walked down the same street twice

the barking is chained

the street is an art of time caught

the water is at the end of the road

give your coin to a beggar

be blessed

turn left when you come to the water

stand a while for the sun

you will see feet affixed, top of the bridge

the piercings do no good

to sit is a privilege you pay for

anyone can walk slow

the wifi has gone

all other worlds ended

accept

you are here and now

the water comes around a corner

and you are followed

reflected there

you can watch a burglar consider

only the ancients inhabit these houses

give to a busker

glass like an island

all made by hand

so crooked so

everything bent

your gaze arrests

a camera calcifies

the hatred of tourists is deep

it is beyond disdain

they are pumping it out

they keep us afloat

pigeons see all of this landing

the sky is one to them

you can buy the manicules

feathers and skulls

fridge magnets

fudge cudgels

a gondola takes you to drown

in every cafe – the music of a different year

and that's when you come out

it has always been this way

one thousand years of republic

after two days you will give directions

though only in Italian

walk with a stick and then you are old

Texans and Latvians, all China's here

devils everywhere

barrows of cement go by

and they're the city sinking

you could eat

and take it in

chocolate bolts and spanners

gloves and quills

carnival masks

a little wobbly gondola says

here is the Venice of object to buy

these will always remain in this Venice

once past the lagoon

they dissolve

we forget

all these clocks stopped

just where they would

gold with a sun to say

take home the pillow

rest on it

then you'll never get Venice out of your head

sit still

it will revolve for you

in a picture fed with sunshine

in a shop window

under a plane tree's leaves

this vast from the bright

moustaches plural

trained up like vines

and satin tight pants

a proper little pup

in a spider man suit

a gull stands tall to bark

and another

so cold out of the sun

and met on the Rialto

with a Falstaff guffaw

fine capon lined and soaked with sack

as if no time had passed at all

so much tongue out to lick the thing

it could all turn to chocolate

or marzipan

pasta or pizza the right time of day

but mainly it's gelato

in summer see the whole town melt

Venice in a snow cone shaken

that's where we all are

time is killing us here

in arches

topped with coats of arms

primitive the bobbing poles boats rub

ends out of the water

see them stumble up with cameras

I myself drift off

it is a fountain never stops

and then a bell chips in

between gulls

between pigeons

no one haggles now

so flow like tourists

all a flutter

hatred of them keeps everything floating

so many

so lonely they all are

I think were melted wax

and all as if they had to dance

I drift off

where sunshine is streetstruck

my words elastic banded

I'm here to inscribe

sit for the gondola splash

an accordion comes all major bright

red shirts striped horizontally

Dean Martin won't give it away

it's never too early for a drink

the city is almost as big as an I-pad

miraculously fits

see them walk the plank on a gondola pier

that's one way they go in

it's brave to edge the pink socks near

topple off into the murk reflections

the air weighs precious here

so much the hundred grams

buy ink and quill

magic, how streets come

campos, piazze

a poke in the eye with a selfish stick

or a girl examines inside of her shoes

then who runs this republic?

whose are the thousand years?

golden dragons, the seat beside

wait for the moon to gleam

throned

you'll have to ask the dogs

pampered along

they know

they shit

and their lackeys

clean up for them

it is only the dogs who know