So this is again Italy.
This is a different.
I know, shoot me now.
But I also got a residency in a castle in Italy
in Umbria, which is also pretty special.
Although a friend of mine is actually
leaving today from there.
And I told her she was going to have
this incredible amazing time.
It was like 104 degrees.
And there was an invasion of bats.
And then there were bugs all over.
And her back went in spasm.
And so she's like, limping home in utter misery after this.
Also I'm sure she did a lot of writing
and had a lot of amazing meals and conversations, but still.
So this is called "Night in the Castle."
I'm not sure what to do about that scorpion twitching
on the wall.
Maybe I should slam it with this book of terrible poetry
or just read aloud to it until it
dies of a histrionic metaphor bleeding out
on the ancient stones in a five octave aria.
If I get a little drunker, I might try
to murder it with my sandal.
I gave up on mercy a while ago.
That's what happens when you live
in a castle on an artist's grant.
You look at the late afternoon Umbrian light smearing itself
over the tomato vines and feel entitled
like an underage Duchess whose husband has finally
died of gout, leaving her free for more secret liaisons
with the court musician.
She might even have poisoned the Duke, the lecherous shit.
It's hard to remember what life was like before this.
And I don't want to, I want to stay here and poison the King next.
I want to be a feared and beloved queen
ordering up fresh linens and beheadings,
locking up bad poets in their artisanal hair shirts,
torturing academics with pornographic marionette
performances.
Meanwhile, the scorpion is still there twitching blackly,
reciting something about violence and the prison of ego.
And I can hear the clashing armies
on the wide lawn outside sinking down into history
and then standing up again.