LOUIS PIRRO
the  D A G O S P H E R E
          o t h e r   p o e m s
&
1 9 9 7  -  2 0 0 1
(c) copyright Louis Pirro, 1997 - 2001
THE  DAGOSPHERE

Magnified by the sun
tiny pools of oil
are glistening
everywhere,
on plastic & skins,
fabrics and metals-
a billion great slicks
shining, irridescent,
somehow beautiful...

& they are migrating,
breeding,
residing,
as neighbors and friends,
mates or allies-
in your backyard...

Confident now,
they marry more
than just the Irish.

And while they cook,
paint, steal,
or insinuate
themselves into
this now oily world-

( sticking together
like coarse hair
under your bed )

you'll realize
this whole, greasy
dago-sphere
won't ever
be the same again-
With,
or WithOut,
Paper!



A SPAGHETTI  WESTERN

They gathered us on reservations-
Just off the boat.

And in my youth
I recall hunting with my Father...

& when the lasagna came rolling  over the hills
we could bring them thundering down
with the slings and arrows
usually reserved for our paisans.

We could feast for weeks-
spilling sauce and basil everywhere.
And we could clothe ourselves,
with dried and tanned noodles-
a big 10-panner could carry the whole tribe.

Once,
just back from the "guinea-town" general store
laden with supplies of garlic & oil-
we were cornered by a fed
who wanted to check our papers.
And my father-
in cold blood,
killed this agent
from the Bureau of Italian Affairs
with a frozen block of Spumoni
& an Awopahoe war cry
that rolled off his tongue.

This, and other tales,
were often repeated and reenacted
with wild gesturing
over cappucino, vino, and limoncella,
by fires long since extinguished.

Now we live in peace,
fully integrated into the world...

Though sometimes the aroma
of a fresh hot "A-beetz"
bubbling straight from the oven
will take me back to the thrills
of my boyhood in the West...

...and my heart pounds
for that dignified past of my people;
So stylish, proud, and vain,
so prone to bad humor,
and once,
so easily mistaken
for Indians.

B A C K