“Moon In the Abstract”

On Gandolfini As “Soprano”

I.

They’ve come

To tailor

The scenes

To the way

The man moves

Through sacred boundaries

Of time

(silk)

Across the heaviness

Of ancient

Old atmosphere

(emptiness)

In the abstract

Moves thirsty

And slow

With heavy

(black)

Culpable boots

(tangled)

Worn savage

(strange)

Mix of man

(hybrid)

Mix of blood

(the thought)

Of angel wings

Gives way

To the

Very breath

Of the devil

(oil)

Soaked in clots

(black)

Stained the color

(of)

Diesel smoke

(rain)

Mixed with venom

(this)

Dark reptilian brain

Keeps watching

The walls

For murder

(life)

Breath by breath

(lives)

By degrees

(immersed)

In shadows

(hungry)

And wanting:

II.

In the beginning

(we)

Saw an innocence

(in)

His eyes

(once)

A place

Of holy

Rivers flowed

(naked)

Blue palaces

Of wind

(that)

Knew the

Direct power

Of each glance

(a softness)

Full with music

And beauty

(danced)

Thirsty rings around

Every circle

(until)

He was engulfed

By arrows

(arrows)

Of sorrow

(engulfed)

His spirit whole

(this instrument)

Of anger

(re)

Baked in lungs

Of rage

(this)

Instrument of destruction

(hollow)

From the

Mouth down

(perfect)

Honed sharp

(template)

Of sorrow

(from)

Which all

Other scenes

(might)

Be measured

III.

And they killed

The renegade

With indifference

(charlatans)

On the edge

Of the walk

(whispered)

Dirty words

At his shadow

(a man)

Stripped of family

(community)

Without connection

(fought)

Himself for title

To his

Own face

(searching)

For the

True meat

Of substance

(reality)

Without love

(sin)

Without opposition

(raging)

At the walls

(substance)

No see

Through skin

(raged)

Thirsty blind gales

Of death

(ratified)

In blood

(clearness)

And clarity

(become)

The sparse

Blue echo

Of fists

Against the

Hallowed windows

Of dawn

IV.

And watched

His life

(consumed)

In rubble

(the meat)

Of the myth

(the meat)

Of old memory

(depth)

Of substance

(meat)

Of meaning

(lost)

Whole in words

(faithful)

In denial

(wept)

The ground

(in)

To this endless

Frozen-cold field

Of graves:

V.

And the hunger

Has cut

Deep grooves

Along the

Diamond gouges

Of his lips

(roads)

Made of rock

(scream)

At the moon

(and)

The earth shakes

(crystal)

Cathedrals of storms

Are blowing

The aroma

Of fresh blood

(as)

A man

Draws his gun

(from)

His vest pocket

(‘I)

Said don’t park

Here again

(if)

I have

To tell

(you)

One more time

(kill)

You dead

With my own

Bare hand-’

by John Aiello