Our Man in Europe, dave Delacroix....The Naked Persona.
SUN-BLEACHED STRADA on its grande tour, a Nano-Eternity, simpering for moisture. A STRAY...doggie...sniffing gutters of Infinity or worse. Albani-botteglia-Bottle trees STILLED, no whittling, no wither and the mezzo-giorno silence established. Not a murmur. Vecchio-Civita Nothingness, a God unto itself without purpose, logic, reason. Only its sun-bleached persona reigns.
And nary a sign of Man, chatter, as a Spider on my terrazzo Bar Odeon café table awaits its preys mortality which navigates beer glass, bottle, ashtray, cellphone, writing paraphernalia, smoking, and a mind in creative chaos.
Who UN-paints this Canvas!
Who UN-screams this Scream!!!
2 Hepcats appear! The Café-s adjacent Solar powered-malfunctioning fountain is the topic of conversation. A lone VESPA-scooter squeals across the piazza Carmine. A panoply of tourists butterfly, incendiary, and plant themselves at the next table. They order Pizza slices, Vino, Pellegrino beer and chatter Itineraries.
Yet the post-naked intrinsic vitality of the past naked moment remains to haunt the last of the Summer wine and all my Tomorrows, indivisible.
c2018. davedelacroix. Late October.
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