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PREFACE FOR A BOOK OF POEMS

I met a man who had a glass head.
We saw – through the dark side of thought – the entire planetary system.

We saw the flicker of light in the veins and the sludge of emotions at the fingertips. The pulse of time in the moisture of the lips.
And insomnia, with its rings of broken moons and dried-up sperm. The dead stars of imagined cities.
The sad bones of words.
The night surrounds the intelligent hand of the man who possesses a transparent head.
Around him, it rains.
We can imagine a thick, black, leaden rain.
Then the man opens his hand, an orange appears, fluttering.
The cities (as in every book I’ve read) burn.
Fires that destroy the last heart of the dream.
But the one who wears the porous skin of his own writing stacks, absorbed, the orange.
Will the fall of the orange provoke the poem?
Is the flying orange, or is it not, an orange imagined by a madman?
And will a madman know what an orange is?
And if the orange falls? And the poem? And the poem with an orange falling?
And the poem in the shape of an orange?
And if I eat the orange, will I be devouring the poem? Going mad?
And will the word "orange" exist without the orange?
And will the orange fly without the word "orange"?
And if the orange lights up from its center, from its most secret segment, and someone forgets it in the middle of the night – will the glow of the orange illuminate the long-dead cities? And if the orange moves through space – faster than thought, and much slower than the written orange – will it create order or chaos?
The man with a glass head lives outside the city walls.
He was cast out.
And in the desolation of the lands, throughout the night, he watches his own dreams and nightmares. His own gestures – and a face suspended in solitude.
Where does the man live who dared to write with his nail on his soul, his sex, his heart?
And if he wrote "orange" on his soul, will the soul taste sweet?
And if he wrote "orange" on his heart, will passion prevent him from dying?
And if he wrote "orange" on his sex, will desire increase?
Where is the life of the man who writes, the life of the orange, the life of the poem – Life, with nothing more – will it be here?
Outside the city walls?
Inside my body? Or far away from me – where I know I have another reason… and I commit suicide in an attempt to transform myself into a poem and finally be able to circulate freely.

"AL BERTO"

I am sharing photos of landscapes, moments and experiences. Nature and sea are the most visited themes in my photo collection, but any attention-grabbing aspect can be photographed. Hope you enjoy it...