amarcord

[constantine]

but what are these things
that fall, aimlessly
from the trees
seeds,
tendrils and filaments
puffballs, floating
nearly insubstantial,
flitting from my grasp
in a city that doesn't exist

[constantine]

been getting a lot of cards and letters about this latest effort of yours truly and why not? it is perfection in a drum. only nine - count em - nine lines, and yet it says more than a screen full of hasty scrawl which shall go nameless - as sandro milo points out," having been boinked by fellini on several occasiones, i feel i know him intimatio. but, fellini finito. ciao. bon giaorno constantino. nova maistro!!"

basta. basta, sandra. mi facio pigmentato rose.