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PREFACE TO A BOOK OF POEMS
I met a man who had a glass head.
Through the shadowy side of thought, we could see the entire planetary system.

We saw the flickering light in his veins and the sludge of emotions at his fingertips. The throbbing of time in the dampness of his lips.
And insomnia, with its rings of broken moons and dried-up seeds. The dead stars of imagined cities.
The sorrowful bones of words.
Night encircles the intelligent hand of the man with a transparent head.

Around him, it rains.
We can imagine a thick, dark, leaden rain.

Then, the man opens his hand; an orange emerges and floats.
The cities (as in all the books I’ve read) burn.
Fires that consume the last heart of the dream.

But he, clothed in the porous skin of his own writing, seizes the orange, absorbed.
Will the fall of the orange give rise to the poem?
Is the flying orange an orange imagined by a madman?
And does a madman know what an orange is?

And if the orange falls? And the poem? And the poem with a falling orange?
And the poem shaped like an orange?
And if I eat the orange, will I devour the poem? Go 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, yet far slower than the written orange—will it create order or chaos?

The man with the glass head lives outside the city walls.
He was cast out.

And in the desolation of the lands, deep into the night, he watches over his own dreams and nightmares. His own gestures—and a face suspended in solitude.

Where does the man who dared to write with his fingernail on his soul, his sex, his heart dwell?
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, nothing more—does it lie here?
Outside the city walls?
Inside my body? Or far away from me—where I know I possess another reason...
and I commit suicide in an attempt to transform myself into a poem and finally, freely circulate.

"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...

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