LINEAGE
I've got a black closet full of memories of race : my
North African forebears five generations back, that
old swarm of compatriots ending in the south Italian
maelstrom without a tongue to speak. And on the
other side, Bari, and all those Albanian seamen
running back and forth to that Italian port. Ah, yes,
my life is a mix-up of races and people long dead.
I had a crazed father, with even a pillow for a head;
and a way-too-sensitive mother, never realized until
dead. I only hazard a guess about all the rest.
-
And now? If it was Keats or Shelly who said 'Poets are
the unacknowledged legislators of the world,' they were
only partially right. I am tired of being ignored. I am
sick
of this silence. I want to be acknowledged. Everything
else, to hell with it all. I am writing a new scripture
for
those who can read. For the rest : those effervescent
cat-callers and dreary dweebs of their ordinary times,
they can all rot in their days, for all I care. I know
what
the words 'fuck them' mean, and they are
said.
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