After the Invention of Polystyrene a Ligurian Goat Crosses the Equator
Abut in a tailspin, mad spark
of horn, keratin scratching hard-
wood—and that buck-
toothed back-bite, a double-
chew driving through
everything that if-you-pleases:
shoes, hats, buttons, ties—
that crumpled trilby Giuseppe wore
with his 30s Valentino, and
in the buttonhole, an off-
white carnation, and in another incarnation,
carrying the fleas of late middle age—;
an idler, a swiller of leftover
orange pop, a guzzler
of misconstrued trash, gunk and grease—
‘sono malcontento e raccattaticcio,’
as was parlayed
by Great Uncle Fabrizzio
before his last hand of blackjack
on an ocean liner
from Jakarta to Genoa via Dar es Salam
as he observed an empty
can of mystery meat circle
a lone polystyrene container,
then hover and dive gullishly
into a shoal of mackerel
in a calm whaleless Indian Ocean
crossing the equatorial
with a borderline heart attack
—and finally, that Bornean warrior,
not raised by Cain, but a clan
of cannibals, a bird’s delicate leg bone
through his flared nostrils, adjusting
his penis sheath on the crux
of an equinox while dreaming
of a creature he’d never seen
but knew from a lifetime of belly-
aches and breathy sighs, curried
in Bombay on a street stall
in sinews and gristle, fat-
dripping to the chuffed-
up floor, dusted in finest particles
of the most ancient Macedonian gold
collected mote by mote on fingertips
by a team of orphaned ragamuffins
known as the ‘All That Glitters’—and
that mad pan-flute-playing
Ligurian passione that carried
Uncle Fabrizzio from the silver
platter of bright colonial Indonesia
to the shredded and shaded
terraced alleys of serpentine Genoa
in pursuit of an idle dream of old wives’ tales
more than anything he might have foretold.
