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Stones of Venice, Death in Venice, Death in Stones of Venice.� Venezia.� Campo Santa Margerita, defending my solitude with early mornings.� Sound of seagulls, and streets being swept clean of trash and bottles.� City of birds, fish, and masks.� Luxurious decay.� Like its been tested by its deterioration, washed and crumbled to its essence, and found to be still beautiful.� Not beautiful in the way of most cities, but like an old whore men still flock to, although her face is cracked, because she has experience, knows how to pull sadness from someone's gut, turn their blood into the water of her streets.� I leak to steal a city?s early mornings, before she knows she's being watched.� First caf� to open, standing at the bar with an espresso and Mr. Jones comes over the radio.� Italians are playing the gambling machines and the bartender has a limp.� Venice is the liquid, crumbling ciry that lies beneath all others, the salt smelling air of all departures.� At its center somewhere is a fish-tailed minotaur. |
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San Marco, the Doges' Palace, trips up and down the grand canal.� Piazzas, Fondamentas Rios.� Gugenheim museum.� Picassos women at the seaside, Duschamp, Rene Margrite, Max Ernst, Mondrian, even a Brancusi that had flown away from Romania to become a bird in space.� After we saw the Academia, all those white upturned and rosy faces, half-bared breasts, mouths open ,caught just after sleeping gas was released into the paintings.� Perhaps a few seconds before their faces would have shown the ecstasy, love, or fear necessary to make their poses appropriate.� Like the huge and many rooms of the Doges' palace, they seemed indifferent glorifications, of God or the Republic. |
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