Una su un milione, Baby K

Leaving by evening, I
want it far and wide, as long as I might,
universal finish line, & re-
mind you that the world’s a little bigger deal.

I’m going to sleep between the planets and all the
stars: greet me from the low depths;
I hope a recollection is enough
for you. Remind me of my requests,
not just of my defects;
remind me that I’m not ever what you expect.

Maybe one day you will capture every one of my
aspects; I’ve not yet taken «no» for an
answer, been picked by prior choices
who believed in looking down on opponents
before the first look. And at heart,
I only bother t’ acknowledge the right
account. I made up a whole world off the top of
my head, and never accepted a
faithful other, who made my head
let my thoughts go
over beer glasses.

Y’ all must be my party,
drinking to this life, in your honor;
tell the band to turn it up!
With no regrets, come on out
and let me permit a thought,
for whoever I am and whom I will be, on
my way to get in touch with the sky.

Tell me this one’s name now;
Tell me this one’s name now.

Remind me once again,
I’m one out of a million!

One more out of a million,
I’m one out of a million, oh yeah.

And if I end up going,
Roses on my box, seat:
Remind me once again,
Just like no one else does!

One in a million, I
Am one out of a million,
I’m a million to one, woman.

Look wherever you want, you won’t find any like me!
First off or next you’ll see that
with no me, you’d never feel like a king.
Put this world on the back-burner, to make good on
searching for an eclectic universe with innovative rules.
Better to stay humble, best
not to ponder invalid boundaries —
forgetting about prayers is for the fools.

Let me go off,
I’m already on a high trip.

Life is an airplane,
& no pilot works for me.
And if they’re wondering about me,
I already got the carrot, and the stick.

The story, with me there? — a
half-way empty bottle
like a night at the opera house, with a note out of tune:
I found another prima ballerina, but something’s off,
so I’m burning all the bridges between me and this corrupting sea,
which wanted me to stop concealing scales —
and maybe when I go off alone, I’ll claim to be a special girl.

Just a kiss to someone who knows how to give one, I’m out. . .

Tell me this one’s name now;
Tell me this one’s name now.

Remind me once again,
I’m one out of a million!

One more out of a million,
I’m one out of a million, oh yeah.

And if I end up going,
Roses on my box, seat:
Remind me once again,
Just like no one else does!

One in a million, I
Am one out of a million,
I’m a million to one, woman.

Audio on YouTube

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Sonnet from Vita nuova 15, Dante Alighieri

What holds me up, does die from within my mind,
whenever I am drawn to looking upon you,
dear gorgeous delight; and when I near you, I
perceive Love itself, who states: “Get going, if

dying is offensive to you.” My look alone
shows the hue of th’ interior heart which, in passing
out, will ask for aid, wherever it can; and,
inebriated as I was from great rumbling,

the stones seemed to grumble: “Die, do die!” It’s
a sin just to see me, if one does not console
my shell-shocked soul, by showing he has pity
on me, with piety, which your mockery does kill
off, devotion born from within my dying face —
by the eyes — as they desire for their dying.

C’est la banlieue, Assalti Frontali

They talk about Italy like it’s of the saints and the poets, but where’s the poetic instinct now? Upon a graffiti wall, or maybe at those secret stations where dreams get left behind. Then someone shuffled their feet over the line; I gathered up the nets of the heartless reality. My buddy Pierrot presented me with those candles of yours. I’ve got to write my own story. The night-time is black, as the dark of the road renews poetic sense, but under glaring of the moon, we fail to witness that we should have to be put to the fire, to speak on our own part. Let us take our chances; and what shall be discovered, that we’re knocking at the door and don’t know who would open it here. I’m sure we could combine our cries of woe, so as not to burn them alive like forced labor kids. I hung up the threads, with a clitoral shudder, in a world where poetry kills it off inside of the crib, in a lake of oil, & I’m readying the power and people for the treetops, furrowing my sails. . . Look at this garden, that poor sorry bench. If you look at it too well, it’s a ship on its way to sea. And down the line, I alone see the secret police, and view a company for hunting down brand new spoils. Here are the poets that form resistance for us. They write poetic forms of life, but who could make sense of it all?

It’s just the suburbs (just the suburbs),
and so provincial (This is the ghetto.);
it’s just the suburbs, mister…
so hand me the mic (This is the ghetto.),
just hand the mic to me.

It’s just the suburbs (just the suburbs),
and so provincial (This is the ghetto.);
it’s just the suburbs, mister…
so hand me the mic (This is the ghetto.),
just hand the mic to me.

Better to live off of piracy than go with bad company, better to be alone in this sea than to get stuck up in the mud: I’ll have one of whatever they serve here — the risk is being a friend of ours. Boarding at the Jolly Rodger, get the sail in order: here are some people who don’t know who they are any more; I’m totally slacking off in doubt, over urban piracy. These are the ones who don’t know where they’re off to, any more — this moon looks on us by the batch of hundreds, and shines upon the links down below, though its light is awful dim. I miss when we would chew on coca leaves: we’d go out every night and try a witty sortie, knocking at the door to go play at our game; we’d be here all cloak and dagger under cover. There’s no equipment in this sea, except for shouting over children. If we dance across the bridge, there’s no blame for being on a roll, since every single day is a celebration in the stars, & I forget it. I’m certain that we could finish really badly, not to suffocate in the hold of a ship, though for now, a sufficient store is acquired at the coffee bar. In the market place, my little ship was almost deterred for a second, & what a dick, not to give a shit about who is driving the Porsche? He would be the son of a notorious director from La Roche. To us, it’s much better to listen to Peter Tosh, offering you a beer out of pocket-change so posh. . . .

It’s just the suburbs (just the suburbs),
and so provincial (This is the ghetto.);
it’s just the suburbs, mister…
so hand me the mic (This is the ghetto.),
just hand the mic to me.

It’s just the suburbs (just the suburbs),
and so provincial (This is the ghetto.);
it’s just the suburbs, mister…
so hand me the mic (This is the ghetto.),
just hand the mic to me.

Il Rap de Enea, Assalti Frontali

the ruling class, future of our immature children

I’ve an idea, I got idea, Aeneas was saying, have one idea,
& he took his saying to the meeting: I have got idea,
the children’s future jives not with Gelmini.
I’ve an idea, I got idea, Aeneas was saying, have one idea,
& he took his saying to the meeting: I have got idea,
better to tell Mariestella no than try on mini-finery;
I’ve an idea, I got idea, Aeneas was saying, have one idea,
& he took his saying to the meeting: I have got idea,
let’s deny Gelmini 24/7, tell her no by day and night —
let’s deny Gelmini 24/7, tell her no by day and night.

Hey, they call me Aeneas — I went up to Iqbal Masih
and got a little green t-shirt, really classy tee, which
states: “I love my school and protect it.” Not one
bit the only master, Gelmini is just one solely;
I understand how great they are — I’m at elementary
level and already working two weeks at my school.
You say that they’re young people and I have a lot to  prepare,
but we’re all under assault and I’m giving myself a project:
not only am I certain, I’m with my mommy, along with my
master teachers, & we built a country shed with all the
pillows made from bags of hair, and the grand doormats
that won’t take one bit — all the same, the ones on
time are ever, I mean forever, at the reunion;
so that they’ll have something to say, I’m playing a bit of
football. They’re all in distress every hour, every moment
looks like a great big disgrace overcame my own world.

I’ve an idea, I got idea, Aeneas was saying, have one idea,
& he took his saying to the meeting: I have got idea,
the children’s future jives not with Gelmini.
I’ve an idea…

I have a pair of teachers, master Mari and Simona, &
come to think of it, I don’t know how to tell you
which is the better, with twenty l’il friends, what a marvel;
we’re every one together, from morning to afternoon
this is public school, everybody’s education,
the schooling that these scoundrels want to be cheeky —
I’m shedding flakes, slinging balloons:
now I’ve taken what backs Gelmini up,
districts 137 and 133.
But if they take Berlusconi’s way, I comprehend the reason
this school room will be empty, will be missing a piece,
which I’m sending them home to resume, from noon to
middle of the night. We’re the kids of a real sick Italy,
that demands them to be assets in the privatized schools,
so let’s shut the world down and chug like a choo-choo:
long live the public schooling system, at full time.

I’ve an idea, I got idea, Aeneas was saying, have one idea,
& he took his saying to the meeting: I have got idea,
the children’s future jives not with Gelmini.
I’ve an idea, I got idea, Aeneas was saying, have one idea,
& he took his saying to the meeting: I have got idea,
better to tell Mariestella no than try on mini-finery;
I’ve an idea, I got idea, Aeneas was saying, have one idea,
& he took his saying to the meeting: I have got idea,
let’s deny Gelmini 24/7, tell her no by day and night —
let’s deny Gelmini 24/7, tell her no by day and night.

I am not afraid, have no fear; and this is Aeneas’s
rhyme against tyranny. I’m not afraid, no, not
a fear — I want to be together with my own people
close to culture, & if this is the crisis that will
settle the problem? Let’s all be united together
at the university crib, since we have to win and
make it happen — this is a kinky wave of crowds
full time. If these are witches, dwarves, the returns
and little people, then I’m making rap of Aeneas
and do defend my interest in tomorrow, so too
the special boys and girls which complete the story,
but always recall: the cho-mo’s paying the bill.

This is Aeneas’s flow, oh yeah Aeneas über-rap,
This is Aeneas’s rap on the education system,
This is Aeneas’s flow, oh yeah Aeneas über-rap,
This is Aeneas’s rap, let’s cut the soldiers off.

Quelli che benpensano (Those Normative Conformists), Frankie HI-NRG

They’re here around me, all about me; lots of times we be making promise without keepin’ it, but unless it’s in self-interest, the end is just the point of it: center of all that’s possible, the greatest stake’s a joke, the conquering imperative, & not to involve any else in the logic of the game, th’ only rule — being shrewd: not a scruple, no respect for one’s own kind, since the latest are the last ones if the first just can’t be touched. There’re so many, cocky with the less strong, doormats for the powerful, in charge of responses — they’re all the same identity, watch ’em: they’re behind in dress up masks, & no way to tell them apart. Coming up like lizards, even if they buy a line of ‘pardon’ then. They make who they want known in their circle they form: they spend, get big and are that one they hold…

They’re ’round about me, but do not converse with me — they are like I am, but feel it to be better… (repeat)

And like suppositories inhabit blisters “full optional,” with dogs louder than 120 decibels and dwarfs not even found at Disneyland, they live in fear of maybe looking poor: they show off what they have, envy all the rest, then buy it up — in mounting escalation they build with the neighbor: they get off the green and as high as the sky, with a bigger halo on their head than St. Mark from the bible. They’re the ones who on Sunday wash their cars, ones that go flashing by over the pavement with their kids in the dark, middle-men like the class they come from, ground-based like the missiles they resemble. Tight like wads, they’re powdered in flour, turn into drunks, & then get mixed up under a tree — boom! Noses white like Fruit of the Loom, they get redder than the next level in Doom. . . .

They’re ’round about me, but do not converse with me — they are like I am, but feel it to be better… (repeat)

All in themselves, lord by God, hands that are pressed between the church’s banking houses on Sunday — hands of hypocrites — hands that do things which are not otherwise told of, the other hands taking care of who knows what — & they’re shocked upset. — hands that sign petitions then to divest, slick hands like castor-oil, hands that brandish their baton, that get filled up with bling, hands up behind brothers’ back. These people, as the night cannot go on, these do come to hoes while their babies watch the TV: they put them in charge, people who buy “classy,” who are upper class in calling ’em “the Academies,” nightmares in plastic who want to torch every weed but only light the one up that gives them their charity nightly, when they hide from me within the veiled face of the black moon that’s theirs.

They’re ’round about me, but do not converse with me — they are like I am, but feel it to be better… (4x…)

Antonio Gramsci, The Tenth Canto of Dante’s Inferno

4.78. Debate on “structure and poetics” in the Divine Comedy according to Benedetto Croce and Luigi Rosso. Reading of Vincent Morello as a “vile corpus”. Writing of Fidele Romani on Farinata. On the Saints. Question of the “indirect representation” and of the captions in the picture-show: the subtitles have an artistic value? — do they contribute to the representation of its character traits? Yes, surely — so far as they fix judgment of the actor and more pragmaticly characterize a given personality. The case of Shaw’s Don Giovanni, with the treatise of John Tanner appended: this appendix is a caption, from which a talented actor is able and obliged to extract fundamentals through interpreting them. The Pompeii-esque image of Medea, who slays the children she had with Jason: Medea is depicted as blindfolded: the painter did not know how, or wanted not, to represent this look. (Yet this is the case with Niobe, also in works of sculpture: covering her face would have signified removing the meaning from the work). Farinata and Cavalcante: Guido’s father and father in law. Cavalcante is punished by the squad. No one noticed that whether he was displeased with Cavalcante’s drama, the condemned man’s torment was not actually seen among that group: the formal structure should have led to an aesthetic judgment, most precise one of the canto, since every form of punishment gets represented in act. The work On the Saints made note of the severity comprised in the canto by the fact that Farinata’s character changes with a line: after being made, poetry becomes structure; it explains; it goes from Cicero to Dante. Farinata’s poetic representation is brought back to life in marvelous manner by Romani: Farinata is a series of sculptures. Then Farinata recites his tagline. Isidore del Lungo’s book on the Chronicle of Dino Compagni: in which is fixed the date of Guido’s death. It’s odd that the scholars did not think first of using Canto Ten to determine this date within approximation (who did it?). All the same, the check up performed by Del Lungo is useful in interpreting Cavalcante’s outward appearance and for explaining the execution of duty done, from Dante to Farinata.

What’s Cavalcante’s position, what is his form of torture? Cavalcante sees the past and sees what is to come, but does not see in the present, in a fixed space of the past and of the future into which the present moment is included. Guido was alive in the past, will be dead in the future, but as for the present? — is he dead or living? This is what tortures Cavalcante, the worry his own, one’s only over-riding thought. When he speaks, he asks about his son; when he hears “was”, the copula in past tense, he insists on response and on deferring one, doubts it not any longer: his son has died; he vanishes, into the red-hot sepulcre.

How does Dante represent this dramatic scene? He insinuates it to the reader, does not make it a representation; he gives the reader the basics so that the drama may be reconstructed, and these elements are given in the structure. Yet still there is one dramatic passage and it comes before the tagline. Three remarks: Cavalcante appears not dexterous and manly like Farinata, but humble, broken down, perhaps on his knees and he demands in uncertain way to know of his son. Dante responds, indifferent, or nearly so, and uses the word which refers to Guido in the imperfect. Cavalcante suddenly picks up on this fact and shouts hopelessly. He has a doubt, not real certainty; he demands further explanations in three questions, in which is an ensemble of states of mind. “Why did you say: he ‘was’?” — “Isn’t he still alive?” — “Does the sweet light not still strike his eyes?” In the third question, there is all the fatherly affection of Cavalcante; the typical human “life” is seen in a pragmatic state, in the enjoyment of the light, which the condemned and the dead have lost. Dante takes a while to reply and then the doubt in Cavalcante ceases. Farinata however is not shaken. Guido being his daughter’s husband, this sentiment has no real power in it at that moment. Dante emphasizes this force of his in mind. Cavalcante’s slouching down but Farinata keeps up appearances, keeps head still, moves not a muscle. Cavalcante falls on his back — Farinata does not make any despondent move; Dante has a negative analysis of Farinata in suggesting the (three) movements from Cavalcante: the twisting up of appearance, the head falling back, his back bending. Nevertheless there is something of the changed man even in Farinata. His reply is no longer such other as it had first appeared.

Dante does not make Farinata ask just “to be informed”, he questions such because he is amazed at being struck by Cavalcante’s passing. He wants the knot that prevents them from replying to Cavalcante to be loosened; he perceives that he is at fault in front of Cavalcante. The structural part is not only structure, then: it is also poetics — it is a necessary element in the drama which has taken place.