Winter 2006-7


(being a dialogue between two friends -- a doctor/poet and an artist/poet -- about death and open heart surgery)

Aldo Tambellini
FEBRUARY 18, 2006 9:15 P.M.


                                the sharp sterilized blade
                                cuts a deep incision
                                the anesthetized flesh
                                gives no resistance
                                the surgeon’s skillful knife
                                moves with swift precision
                                the saw opens the ribcage
                                the heart is exposed
                                removed to a frozen location
                                replaced by a machine
                                beating its rhythm
                                the dangerously enlarged aorta
                                is cut
                                & traded for a plastic tube
                                can the faulty valve
                                be repaired or replaced
                                the world still rotates
                                inside the insane asylum
                                somewhere a suicide bomber
                                blows his body to fragments
                                an orphan’s eyes
                                speak of hunger & death
                                they are pumping liquid gold
                                from the burning desert
                                the price of a barrel
                                is rising high
                                its stock soars
                                cold greedy eyes &
                                green cash machines
                                the surgeon
                                reconnects the heart
                                to its original place
                                the world still rotates
                                inside the insane asylum
                                a deranged tyrant
                                is reprogramming it
                                for new devastations
                                is the heart beating
                                or is the machine
                                pumping the illusion



Stefano XXXXXXxb

there's a beauty to the near death of sleep
and the awesome collective power of dreams:
dreams are everywhere there is humanity
dreams are the maps towards the tranquility of
psychic rest that quenches the tongue of insomnia
with the cool liquid of words
that refresh in times of distraught
awake after thoughts
create an awareness of the good and bad
of everything that is all at once
how do we put it to words
I think of Boris' sleep that night
in the concentration camp
and his confrontation with that evil
with the distorted images of propaganda
that created world pain
those nights as prisoner and the nights
as confronting artists
Aldo alone that same night somewhere in
Lucca in the moon filled streets of
silent steps by the church
the wind kisses the night


and yesterday is again now
within the night's asleep
finds his friends alone
somewhere in a resonating video
Inside a boat
traveling coincidences and circumstances of
re-meeting friends from the eternal
hell of moments and history
replayed in random order the meetings and
and friendships so specifically
Brought back from a shared dream
of cut a chest
and of flesh turned into electric
skins of silk projections
intense reds
so red, that it begins to flow into
red seas of blood so surreal
flowing past Dante incognito
a beatnik shadow upon building
ornaments and gargoyles
snarling into siren flashes
cameras build of personalities
and mirrors that then become
seas of blood shining upon puddles
near the street of concrete cold



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