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Italo

de Anathallo

When you get up
When you wake up
Put your hands up
Pick yourself up
And you pull yourself up underneath the dugout cubby enclave of the sidewalk overhang,
cement buckled upward and the rain came dripping through the crack.
We hear the voice of Italo sing of a holy fire.
When he stomped,
the dirt fell on our eyes.
Hell, he stomped.
It was a mystery to me when you crawled out from underneath the sidewalk overhang.
Cemment buckled upward and the rain cam dripping through the crack.
We heard the voice of Italo sing.
In the second zone of the city a baby born in the nightclub mold where goons dry heave the factory glue all crust-lipped and bloddy nosed.
Fire took the roof off,
hollowing the carcass
(licked it like a bone).
Sway and mone to songs of some pitchless praise,
stoned.

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