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John Who Hears ThingsJust ignore those sounds and they'll be gone, they say, or you're just imagining. And anyway, a gay man's place is sleeping so the rising sun can catch him looking up at the rainbow-stained banner before he goes to work, the banner that waves in the morning air and in the morning light advertises bright colors and covers the broken heart hiding in his own home, beneath the strict laws of our nation's law-makers, under the floorboards burning in a flame war no one wants put out, in the air chilled by people's frozen hearts.
John, whose lover lives half a city away and happens to be a man as well, is sorry there is no one brave enough to rise and help them make a stand. John, who was forced to hide in the dark closet because of the people outside, is young and smart and works full-time at the lone restaurant in the city's heart.
Two subway stops and a walk down Wall Street, because he doesn't want to spend his entire life hiding in his own home or deflecting insults as the two walk down
Volpi.You will find that the story you tell
is very rarely your own. In Lucca,
even the smallest pebbles
breathe in the warm sunlight.
Knotted stones and cobbled roads
beat out a paper-dry heartbeat heat
my city breathes in and out,
inhales sparrow air.
It's writing a story.
You are the pen.
You will find that in Lucca
the daisy chains forge fire
in side streets and back alleys.
Teenagers intertwine. Tell me,
odd flower, are you still closed?
Here we are colored wax;
the heat of the city melts us.
We run into each other, rhapsody
of pigments. Operas are our specialties.
Open up; feel the reds.
If not, try and see them. There is a place
of deep knife marks, a street
long as midnight
you may learn something there.
Valentina's voice glimmers like red wine.
You may enjoy intoxications. Still,
know alcohol has no story
and will swallow your own.
Find the sign with the wolf on it.
You'll know the place. Epiphanies ring true as church-bells.
Lucca still guides the wanderers
to well sp
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