Io Spesso Ho Paura

swift counter of a summer day
when heat is gone and sun away
while countenance may fade and sway
reality is set
no change in wages or in debt
past trespasses had not reset
nor accrued fortunes been lost, yet
most all had lost their way
each poor man is the poorest in the whole village
and each sinner had the larger plot in hell filled
all men were pigs, women mere whores, and children lost
there are but ashes in place of fire
as the sculptor stood, toes teetered, on the kiln edge
wondering the flood that'd follow if he's killed
and in the place of flesh a fresh clay mound he tossed
creation to best escape sad mire

gioca!

i'll never encounter a life
so simple as a child's
game where when confronted
with an enemy, the rules will change
to allow my retro mind
to forget sifting
through merits and rather
focus on the task at hand
when, by chance, I come
across victory, in my hands
should I choose I would rather let the ball slip
through my hands and feign accident
or when by skill you have me
cornered and about to lose
the corner is no more, myself
with it, and am a triangulation
of our former points, at which point the game adds
a dimension
and leaves its plane in favor of my preemption
if only circumstance followed rules
of rhetoric then the order would never be necessary,
nor the pieces, merely the meaning
even the child knows
non ja vwoahlay vinchairay
even if the "educated" choose
to consider him naive
he's having too much fun.