Born Actors

Prose poetry prompt: titular experience

Italians are all theatre — born actors — some other one’s label for life’s mundanity becomes their catalyst for many an intertwined dramatics — tell me it isn’t so

behind each of these paneled windows — a twiddler of stories is not mid-song, or today’s soap opera is not dually underway at long lunch, or longer dinner. With or without crowd —

expanding the monologue well past the finale. Irony and tragedy intertwined on and off the tongue, syncopated to the rhythm of well-versed gestures of hand, which otherwise speak for themselves —

it’s in the mother’s language, obscure to political correctness, calling ‘it’ for what ‘it’ is, still calling them whores – but offence to those who speak without respect to the holy. It’s a divine contradiction, a despicable comedy —

and everyone is in on the joke. Until the red liquor runs out, and scraps have solidified on walls of copper pots — when it seems time to go, so begins the fourth and fifth round —

and the endless lust for wanting to be loved — borders the possessive, borders undefined in matters of triangular ties of heart, which drives the mind, mad, beyond what is right and what is wanted —

opening regions in the stomach for another serving of passion, always smaller than the eyes are wide – always of course unless you’re Italian.

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