| LOUIS PIRRO |
| the D A G O S P H E R E o t h e r p o e m s |
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| (c) copyright Louis Pirro, 1997 - 2001 |
| THE DAGOSPHERE Magnified by the sun tiny pools of oil are glistening everywhere, on plastic & skins, fabrics and metals- a billion great slicks shining, irridescent, somehow beautiful... & they are migrating, breeding, residing, as neighbors and friends, mates or allies- in your backyard... Confident now, they marry more than just the Irish. And while they cook, paint, steal, or insinuate themselves into this now oily world- ( sticking together like coarse hair under your bed ) you'll realize this whole, greasy dago-sphere won't ever be the same again- With, or WithOut, Paper! |
| A SPAGHETTI WESTERN They gathered us on reservations- Just off the boat. And in my youth I recall hunting with my Father... & when the lasagna came rolling over the hills we could bring them thundering down with the slings and arrows usually reserved for our paisans. We could feast for weeks- spilling sauce and basil everywhere. And we could clothe ourselves, with dried and tanned noodles- a big 10-panner could carry the whole tribe. Once, just back from the "guinea-town" general store laden with supplies of garlic & oil- we were cornered by a fed who wanted to check our papers. And my father- in cold blood, killed this agent from the Bureau of Italian Affairs with a frozen block of Spumoni & an Awopahoe war cry that rolled off his tongue. This, and other tales, were often repeated and reenacted with wild gesturing over cappucino, vino, and limoncella, by fires long since extinguished. Now we live in peace, fully integrated into the world... Though sometimes the aroma of a fresh hot "A-beetz" bubbling straight from the oven will take me back to the thrills of my boyhood in the West... ...and my heart pounds for that dignified past of my people; So stylish, proud, and vain, so prone to bad humor, and once, so easily mistaken for Indians. |
