Tie them strong

scraps of fabric

carefully sewn to the sky

(look twice, those aren’t clouds)

 

a secure knot,

some thread, the needle

a couple of painful stitches

 

in the tragedy of the names,

a map to cross the desert

of the memory

 

bent, still at work

the hand moves up and down,

commanding the tide

 

a whisper on the lips,

the thread trembles a while

then flutters away – not that far away

 

scraps of fabric, fragments of life,

tie them strong ‘cause time will try to rip them off

(like the rudest passer-by)

Giudecca Island, Venice – Italy

#3

Shadowless

sprout opens

the gathering night

 

the mysterious source uncovered

(inside: pure memory)

waiting, still

 

dark figures murmuring

about the weak nature of things,

- listening

 

travelling light is important

(only a shade of melancholy)

they say

 

shadowless fingers don’t intertwine,

hardly stay on the right side

the stars

 

if they’re just masks with empty eyes

(pointing the finger)

who can explain for all that sky

the reason?

Giudecca Island, Venice – Italy

# 2

Flemish interiors

I shouldn’t go to sleep after watching movies because when I close my eyes everything turns real, which includes the moon squeaking behind the window pane and the hair becoming needles that prick my fingertips.

So it was that a moon beam entered the room illuminating my soul while observing with a certain curiosity the faded tapestry. The scene – I must admit – was a bit dark and severe, just like those old Flemish interiors and made me feel uncomfortable.

“I like the way you manage the space, it’s effective” she said. “In truth” she added adjusting a crooked frame “I didn’t expect anything so tangible, rather a labyrinth of mirrors, you know..”.

I was on the point of claiming when I woke up. What was she talking about? My usual lack of beliefs concerning the future, perhaps?

microFICTION #15

Counter-resurrection

It was for that stupid affair that he finally left the place where he once buried himself into.

He blinked at the daylight, then began removing the dust from his clothes, patiently.

When he raised the eyes, we noticed how hard he was trying to unearth his voice and got baffled when he asserted that, all considered no, that wasn’t the right way to live an unforgettable experience.

“So isn’t yours” he added later “What are you clinging to? As far as I can see… to a papier-mâché architrave”.

Art installation

MicroFICTION #13

The scissors

She used to make things simple and even in troubled times the happy end was foreseeable.

I was there while she approached the scissors to the side edge of a magazine page where a boat with large white veils was entangled in the good weather.

Suddenly, she closed the blades and cut the sky into two.

“So many things happened in my life” she said trying to explain her behavior “only fragments can soothe my rage”.

What could I say? She did it again: she made hard things incredibly simple.

The cut (workers demonstration, Bologna – Italy)

microFICTION #12

The director

In this frame, the arena is overfilled with characters fighting for a fake tower.

We hustle about waiting for the line that follows our name in the script.

When the light is on us, the face is clear, the wrinkles enhanced, the shade gets heavy, the breath short; all this makes the drama.

She’s there, shaping us with that light, burning our souls in the name of the Art. She writes our role again and again and stares at us scribbling furiously with that impudent purple ink that ticks everybody off.

She’s a damned troublemaker.

In queue (it’s a parade), Bologna – Italy

MicroFICTION #9

Emotional anomalies

Complex personality.

Of his studies of emotional anomalies only a couple of pages survived; two poor pages debating the unexpected spasm that we, improperly, call ardor.

It was he, himself, who one day set everything on fire with a matchstick.

“People around me are cold” he said brusquely ”there was no thrill left, but mine”.

No surprise, the world welcome the act with a genuine enthusiasm.

In queue (enjoying a sunbeam)

MicroFICTION #8

The story seller

More than once, he got caught by the coils of a hug or something that was just a bit more intense than a branch in the backlight.

And the eyes who stared at him, standing quietly on the doorstep behind the flowers, were most of the times distant and gloomy.

He was a dreamer; the only clown in a moribund circus that ends the show with a hint of a bow and whispers in your ear a candid “with love”.

doorbell, somewhere in Italy

Microfiction #6

criti·ciza·ble

Tidy, clean, ideal; potentially perfect.

Unfortunately, it doesn’t exist.

When the script is vague, life is a commedia, pure improvisation.

How can you fight against your feelings if your eyes are closed? Not to mention the horde of fake figures hidden in the folds of your fan;

they don’t fit for the job.

Microfiction #5

When I dream

When I dream

I feel as guilty as if I were rummaging in someone else’s rooms and getting my hands on the odd pictures of the lady of the house who – in a very private moment –

allows herself a little smile of satisfaction.

Getting married in Piazza San Marco, Venice (Italy)