the sculpture of Cosimo Carlucci of Lecce

Below, “Violenza” (1960)  and two other pieces by Cosimo Carlucci at the Museo Storico Citta di Lecce. Worth a trip to southern Italy just to see these.

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Snowy Christmas Creche in Lecce – Roman Amphitheater

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First snow in ten years so no
cats in the ruins, no Pugliese
in the vicolo, but lucky for us
espresso and pasticiotto at
I’vino, where an efficiency lives
that belies Lecce’s streets.

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Le Panier quarter of Marseille

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At night, the steps up from the Vieux Port — you climb a bit faster.

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Le Corbusier’s Cité Radieuse

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Sometimes the view from the roof…. is even better!

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A Letter to my AirBnb Host

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The ants have returned. I know
you said they would forget us.
We did put our food in the fridge
as you advised after the vacuum
broke, the one we were using daily
to keep your place tight and white.
Don’t get me wrong: we love the view
and your rec’s on restaurants (where
they all seem to know your name).
We can deal with ants — they’re small.
But if you fixed the broken light —
it’s been a week — like you fixed
the broken TV, then we could see
the ants better and kill them
before they carry off another
spatula and our toothpaste.
They’re getting war-like and
you changed your phone number.
Is it because I mentioned the
sewer gas in the shower, and that
your dog shits outside our door
every morning at 6 a.m.? We don’t
mind, really, but the ants…
they attack in waves now.
I’ll just leave this on your door
and the keys on the table.

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The bulldog at the Bourgogne

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Bulldog, you lazy bulldog,
I always come to see you,
you never come over to see me.
Tuffy, Oscar, Max, whatever
your name is (I was told it
might be Wembly!) You stay
with the drinks, me with
the coffee, at a table.

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Brancusi

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Take the tangent, I say,

              like Brancusi and his white dog

Polaire,

               and develop a talent

for carving

                       away the inessential.

Cutting corners is the only way

          to go

          to the nose of things.

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Below the rude screen

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The military men dipped the flag

of France, it touched the floor.

Celui qui a mange de ce pain

Celui qui a reçu le soleil

Celui en qui l’Eau vive.

They did not know the words

yet sat above the rude screen.

Beni soit tu

Vous etes belle

Comblee de biens

Comblee de biens,

I would not sit below.

 

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After Trump, at Marsouins

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After Trump, at Marousins

I was drinking, just a little.

The barman put on John Lee

Hooker, my blues lifted, just

a little. On the TV, Paris St.

Germain was kicking ass.

“You been gone so long

John Lee sang and barman

asked “D’ou venez-vous?”

Cleveland, I answered,

looking up just a little

at the TV, where the Cavs

were getting hammered

and John Lee hollered

“Why did you hurt me so?”

 

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Fondation Louis Vuitton

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Cher Louis, when you ran away from home,

at age 13, in 1835, walking 292 miles

to Paris, taking two years to get there,

sleeping in stables along the way,

finally apprenticing to box-maker,

then  starting your own stack-able

trunk company, which got you

appointed box-maker and packer

to the Empress under Napoleon III,

did you ever imagine that a museum

would result, looking like a handbag?

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