CANTO
I of Crito di Volta
______________
from: Crito Di Volta
<patient.power@gmail.com>
to: Flavia Vamorri <bakuninite.2000@gmail.com>
______________
(on a weekend pass)
I
Flavia, my eyes are red as the sunrise this first time I swallow
my speed and hope ...
Teetering
on the street like a bull full of swords, the sunbeams
stabbed me while wishes to see you
staggered me across to the
Diplomatico, where, calvaried in the
laughter of the patio, hunch-
backed in misfitness, I saw your sword-
splitting eye-light boil
my wounds into a moment of balm.
May you always be the dandelion growing into blows of perpetual
steps, and never the iris growing into
passive opulence.
May you never be taken until completely given ...
A crow alights the spire-point in the snow while this patient tries to
try to believe the father’s promise of
“ray-straight” reasons up
God’s sleeve.
The father—
a lonesomeness snakes through his quavering veins and lotus-skinned,
soleness-cored soul.
I turn ...
Out from the dying echoes of his howls I crisply sing The Smiths
through the streets, gallivanting free—
Flavia, the amphetamine’s working!
... After the T.M.S and the E.C.T, after the Clozapine and the exorcizing,
after years of pitch darkness with an autumn
wasp, after the Sanatoriums
and the psych-ward queens who snuffed
themselves despite having sworn
on my soul they would never, and who did not
leave a note behind—I feel
like a Romantic, again ...
Flavia, be in me as the strength of an orphan supermanning in his sorrows
and calamity.
May your heart so naturally dart for the tear-skinned wasp-cored souls, but
not be stung.
Rattle the world harder than the guerrilla machine-gunning at the start of her
first battle.
Be in me as the brusque verity of a cadaver, and not as anything hazy: an
Afghan
field of poppies for the unrequited lover.
Have me in the intensity of Christ on the cross, a second before he gave, and
not
in the calm comfort of a lover in my arms.
Let us to the prisoners of war who’ll hang themselves, and not to the easy
chit-chat
of drunk inheritor-dandies ...
I won’t let you be taken until completely given ...
Would you rather be the speed of a sunbeam or its brightness?
Have me in the holy lunacy of maniacs on soapboxes in city-cores and college
borders, blasting manifestoes, and singing
the melody-lines of people’s veins ...
Flavia, when we met at Diplomatico I never wore my contacts so I could look you
in the eyes ...
Now I go forward with foot-soles of wind ...
Flavia, don’t let me be taken until completely given.
II.
Before our Santa Clara or Coup D’Amore,
before Overpoetry or Götterdämmerung,
before we become comrades and write
manifestoes and propaganda of light,
before the Kingdom is sparked by the swords’ clash
or bullet ricochet, before we have been sung,
before we smash and re-map and dash
and shoot out in the star white snow on the More-
sure shore of the bull’s-eye of peace, hit with a bullet ...
let’s become lovers; let’s drive through Rome
then take a scenic road through my father’s home-
town in Abruzzo; let’s get
mangoes, Prosecco, Muratti’s, and speed;
let’s write love sonnets first, then the new age’s creed!
III.
The phoenixes of our spirits cling
claws above the deluge as we dalliance;
with weak wings I rest a moment against you
in flight, talons loosing. Through mirrored veers
and ardour-softened beaks’ sweetest
meetings, we soar toward theophanies.
The phoenixes of our spirits live on dew.
With four beating wings of fire we
rapturously sing like Orpheus to
Eurydice during their courtship,
and, all the other animals
silence—magnetized, stronger, dazzled.
The phoenixes of our spirits will sign
the wind with charisma high-lit in shine!
IV.
Let’s go to the Sanatorium’s One Hundred And Twenty-Fifth
Anniversary Summer Solstice Dance,
where the patients’
auras mingle into
proto-palpabilities.
Let’s breathe the afflatus of the ‘manics.’
Let’s dance the steps of the ‘schizophrenics,’ channelling a
music we will never hear.
Let’s share our cigarettes, pot, and beer; while they share the
light that’s gone out in the world.
The Sanatorium, where the best minds of our time share no
majestic court, and steer Mankind
despite its shame of them.
CANTO
II of Crito di Volta
_____________
from:
Crito Di Volta <patient.power@gmail.com>
Dear
Niccolo:
I
know how hard to visit here can be; thank you for coming, thanks for the
presents ...Last week I took my first Amphetamine; it worked just minutes after
consumption! I’m getting released later this week...Today I sold three oils for
thirty g’s; now I’m going to live spontaneously. Do send me your rendition of
“Raindrop.” May your weekend be a whirlwind of gold. Training myself to speak
in five-foot lines
(hence
this pentametric letter, bros.) These reflect what we said in the courtyard:
JESUS
AND JUDAS
for Niccolo Di Volta
And
now the Feast of Unleavened Bread drew near
and
Judas practiced kissing on his hand
and
Jesus prayed and cheered a passing band
of
fiery-eyed foreseers without fear,
setting
on its way again, like the sun,
blazing
forth now, letting Jesus steer
it
with trails of greenery that even
stunned
the last-born baby of the mere
caravan.
He turned the rocks
to
streams that rushed, then flowered
the
deserts ahead of these roamers free to endure
their
familiar empire’s gloomy future.
And
as Jesus unlocked his eyes with Iscariot,
He
was arrested, blasting: ramble on!
STANDING
ON OPPOSITE SIDES OF THE STREAM
for Niccolo Di Volta
Standing
on opposite sides of the stream dividing the
ravine— you singing verses and I singing
choruses,
then vice-versa; the spring stream thin; the
kindred
ravine dimming; mom biting her first nail on
the
phone with Aunt Josie; dad inside the study,
reciting
Leopardi; both at home.
Standing
on opposite sides of the stream dividing the
ravine— you practicing your curve-balls, I
catching
all your curve-balls; we synchronized
brothers with
same-sized shadows, equal in our gifts; the
strongest
want each having for the other being that
the other
would out-bloom, out-explode him, like one
cherry-
blossom might out-bloom, out-explode
another—
Standing
on opposite sides of the stream dividing the
ravine—you praying to Saint Cecile, I
praying to
Saint Cecile; the cardinals, camouflaged by
the late
red rays, seeming to shoot out of nowhere,
out of the
vortex to the reason for coincidence, the
Stranger’s
way of remaining anonymous?
And,
soon, telling the time by the fainting sun, I’d jump
the stream.
And,
now, I remember that holy moment when we saw how
beauteous it’d really be, to enter our
paradisal home before
our father—in his white undershirt, young still,
glowing
unlike the sun at the ends of those evenings—had
set out
toward us.
Phone
me after the weekend, mang! Crito
_________________
CANTO
IV of CRITO DI VOLTA
____________
from: Flavia Vamorri
<bakuninite.2000@gmail.com>
to: Crito Di Volta
<patient.power@gmail.com>
_____________
Breathtaking
verses, Crito Di Volta! (An eternity of thank
you’s;
these poems are primo.) And I’m s-o-o-o elated to hear
the
Amphetamine is working! But pairing would mean the
end of
the Movement! We’re the Che and Fidel of the
Patients’
Rev.! We cannot abandon our people for ourselves!
See
you tomorrow for the ... (fingers crossed); your loyalty
never
fails me. When I have finished my studies in dance,
and
I’m the best dancer I can be, I am not only going to
write
you a ballet—I am going to play the lead. I’ve already
begun
the first steps! Again, Crito, breathtaking verses!
Your
comrade,
CANTO
VI of Crito Di Volta
At
Flavia’s attic party, I popped two caps of E that must have been cut with LSD …
Lips of worms kiss me while the wind slaps the green out of the spruces and the
stoplights. My eyes, now blue-winged butterflies, tirelessly beat themselves
into caresses for the invisible, who sing Leopardi’s A Se Stesso in Greek, as
syllables pop into signals when I speak. While epiphanies street-fight over me
I bet the sun my eye-lights for its rays that these will be my most visionary
days, that my vortex of utopia will craze all humans attempting to see beyond
what they can see through their malaise. I wear my visions on my sleeve and
heartbeat Suicide to death, and seduce the tyrants with my hung tongue (and
reduce the Vatican?). A tilt of my head eclipses the sun, whose ring I propose
to everyone. The Overpoet will survive the “poets’” noose of slack, finally,
after all the years of jeers, which hunchbacked his spirit like Keats’ critics.
Why do the “poets” always mock the seers and laugh at vatic voices? A vatic
voice, like a spokes-poking stick, will hurl the Dada-rider skyward then down
to the jetty of his mind; and the Overpoet, an outsider, will lead his jeerers
first, then humankind.
from
CANTO VII of Crito di Volta
(on
my twenty-seventh birthday)
“Like
a lone vermillion pillar marking oases in a desert, he stands!” mocks a
professor. I blast upon the sky-blue tabletop with hand on hip. “What are you
doing up there?” a student jeers. “What are you doing down there!” I sear. “I’ll
split your brain in half with my tongue if I must, but trust I wish for peace
the most! We sleep under the microscope of those who bloom in the shadows! We
must wake soon or sleep unto our deaths— exist beneath the microscope of those
who live in the shadows?! Unite, uprise, or sleep unto our deaths! You who’ve
never mourned in private chambers, nor learned the ways of penitence, nor cared
enough to think to learn, nor thought enough to learn to care— I’ve come to you
for outdoor celebrations, I’ve come to you for your libations to cascade the
rising insights of my end-time epiphanies. And you who’ve never raised the
standards of your spirits— let me brace your forearms so they’ll withstand the
weight of nothingness, and then the weight of the universe. And you who’ve yet
to unwrap your minds of firm-woven false-flags—I will do your thinking for you
till your minds are naked in the truth-light, again. And you inside the safety
of your -isms, you who can only thrive in-side the ivoriest of ivory towers,
who may only be beloved among one sort of people— I will teach you danger and
risk, again. I will teach you how to address the masses you hate, and who
probably hate you, then teach you how to love the masses; or, wait, the former
after the latter—I almost had you. You who are rich, even, but have gardeners
and no friends. You who’ve grown too keen on stasis. You who’ve sought out
campy pamphlets on how to become a heroin addict— I’ll cast out your demons at
your commands, I’ll bend your browning spoons without my hands. You who love
memes with nativity scenes of Lego-blocks or Plasticine— I will show you; I
will teach you the family, again. And you who histrionically attempt your acts
of warmth in this Age of Ice, just so you might claim your own humanity? I will
teach you to be natural, again; then human, again; then godly, again; okay? O,
now, listen, know: this is a prayer, this is a prayer, and I am praying now!
this is a prayer, this is a prayer; you’re in a temple now! You who’ve not yet
distinguished the feeling of dew from sweat upon your high, light brows, take
thought: I sing and pray these preludes, these east-lit words, these letters of
secrets I set to my off-beating heart, for you, too: We must wake soon or sleep
unto our deaths; must cast the first stones at Horus’ eye; must seek his
world’s hiding human chiefs, whose gray waves break like their promises to us—
break over bells of a church, where choruses die. How will we cross the fading
white horizon when we are all entranced by their wave-lengths? Should we now
dress in black for both of us? We must wake soon or sleep unto our deaths! We
must wake soon or sleep unto our deaths; might see streets lit with
bankster-torches; mustn’t side-walk our heritage on garbage day; must learn,
once more, the way to the Temple, for there is One who knows the way to our
door and below the vulture-gyre above the shore their gray waves break like
their promises to us, the horizon is bearing the sky like a truss. We must wake
soon or sleep unto our deaths! We must wake soon or sleep unto our deaths, must
thrust our souls of swords into the shadows, no matter who our hidden masters
be, under whose microscopes we sleep in stabbing light, under whom we cheerlead
the destruction of our kind— our heads bowed down with the weight of the media
like a new dawn’s dew-heavy daisies. Sideway waves of dandelion clocks will
whirl up to the heavens. We must wake soon or sleep unto our deaths …” “Why do
you sing every word you project?!” a poet incites. “I do not sing my verse so
I’ll be sung louder than the poets who can only recite, but sing to draw the
youth who forever might not care for unsung verse; who, rather, tell their
friends of the poet who sings so well —a poem must be sung to be heard by the
universe. And I balk at nothing—not nothingness nor treachery, nor assassins
nor Sheol—and give you my life, as well as my verse, to pay the people the
poets’ ancient toll.” I see Niccolo pleading with the guards like a father
might plead for the life of his child— O my baby brother. “You try to force me
into wolf’s clothing, but I stand here with my bare soul before you. O LET ME
BEAM THE LOVE FOR YOU I AM!” Inside the knee-jerk glowers of the guards, I see
a nearly palpable softness. The crowd expands like an horizon line sprawled
before a teenaged boy standing at the Mountain brow gazing beyond the falcon
gyres. “Mortar: v. 1. to bombard and destroy n. 2. a cement used in building
Take my MORTAIO, my MALTA E PIETRA! Through the moonless, starless, endless
night of Now; with the forth-swinging, blazing, wrecking ball of Mortarism;
with the steel cables of our spirits; with the operator of our history lessons;
with the crane of our hate for the emergency present—let’s demolish the
star-stickered, light-blocking ceilings of present Western “Verse,” “Art” and
“Democracy”. Let’s sing an Overpoetry! Let’s bring the first Musocracy! Let’s
turn “Art” into a tastefully-dressed, breath-taking, perfectly-proportioned,
breath-giving, voluptuous, lactating, ultra magnanimous nurse, with
ways-changing, evolution-redirecting milk; an eternal nurse of our sick,
degenerating nature. Let’s overthrow those phony poets professing to pliable
neophytes: “behold, here is how to leap over poetry’s limbo bar and into The
Antigonish.” The “verse” of today is lesser than urine since at least urine
flows and is not always yellow! Beware of MFA programming! Beware of MFA
pro-gram-ming! Crito Di Volta 35 Beware of MFA programming! Beware of MFA
pro-gram-ming! Never stifle passion for the sake of a fashion started by the
passionless so they could pass as poets too! Drivers of their lines of “verse”
are failing their beginners’ tests, but “poet”-editor-professors let them
graduate with honours, yes! The “poets” write prose and tailor their “poetics”
to their own inabilities —thereby re-defining poetry as prose—then accuse our
few true poets of not knowing how to write verse at all! (If only poets spent
as much time and energy on poetryreciting as they did on poetry-writing; poets
seem to think that reciting poetry comes naturally, without practice! Per che?
Per che?) Look, the world is cardiac arresting in a hospice without doctors!
Poets, we must be cardiopulmonary resuscitation, not a hospital room painting!
The “poets” write in water rather than ink inside electrical cages of Political
Correctness! Poetry, you cannot take a forward step on legs of French
philosophies alone! Canada, I came to you with my soul and with diamonds, and
you tried to collapse them back into a vacuum, back into coal— Canada, remove
your bloody diadem! (((O))) 36 Marc Di Saverio If there is no freedom of
expression, if there is no freedom of speech, there can be no freedom of State
… O anti-poets, must I Mortaristi storm and fell the Language Police Station of
Poetry!? O anti-poets, strive to be the poets you might have been without the
MFA Programming! O anti-poets, de-program yourselves, then learn the rules of
verse before you break them! O how dismal a sign it is for society, when its
poets are passionately pro-censorship! Does anyone have any water? A girl
wearing a camouflaged shirt passes up some cool spring water to me. I sip some
water, then descend the table. I stand in the university square, in my good
suit, with orphic vigour. The students divide like the banks of a stream while
I wind toward the centre of the crowd. In the windless, silent square, I
exclaim: A Baphometian Tandem banks on us, string-pulls puppet shows of all its
Western Governments; is a potter spinning and moulding the globe with jewelled
hands in gloves—our spirits hunchbacked in the impossible pressures of our
pitiless masters, against whom we must unite, rather than rive over who is on
the left and who is on the right. Crito Di Volta 37 We have been divided and
conquered in well nigh every which way—so, unite! Left, right, black, white,
man, woman, atheist, believer, abled, disabled, old, young, Muslim, Christian,
Jew, Gentile, straight, gay, rich, poor, sane, “insane”—Unite! Let us
un-conquer ourselves in the twilight! Our unity’s our masters’ greatest fear—
Our masters, who fear we will, in union, overthrow their ongoing plot to slowly
but surely pacify, disarm and enslave us, to rule us globally, absolutely! Our
unity’s our masters’ greatest fear— Our masters, who fear our simultaneous,
worldwide intifadas—behind whom will be the anyway-armed unanimous, newly
awoken, furnace-fiery, furious masses—with blasts of combat in the streets of
the capitals, with broken souls revolting for the still-wholesome souls of
their children! Now, our love is hard of meeting as a flame beneath the water,
as a prince’s only daughter— hard of meeting, yet it was once as easily met as
long-time parted lovers’ lips. If you—like truth—lie in the shadows of Baal,
might take the beast-mark, knowingly or not— follow my voice till you’re out of
his veil, breathe to my breath till you’re led from your wail. If we want, we
can reverse our soul-rot. If you—like truth—lie in the shadows of Baal 38 Marc
Di Saverio yet still can envision light, I will not fail you; walk beside, not
behind me, uncaught. Follow my voice till you’re out of his veil, follow my
voice like the wind does His sail, follow my voice—it’s my own, I’m not bought.
If you—like truth—lie in the shadows of Baal but still are souled, still try to
feel the nail that Christ eternally feels for you who ought, follow my voice
till you’re out of that veil or never whiff the smoke of your own trailblaze,
you seeing unbelievers I have sought! If you—like truth—lie in the shadows of
Baal, follow my voice till you’re out of his veil!” I pause to hear the little
wind. “It is better to die with nothing but your soul, than to live with
everything but it.” I pause to hear the little wind, again.
CANTO XX
My
brother breathes then breaks into melodies
of all
the major keys, blasting his pistols in
full
charge against the standard opposing,
leading
through the no-man’s land like one
with
nothing to lose, despite being one
with
everything to lose, behind whom
our
spirit-soaring forces drive, behind whom
I drum
and rave, toward his spirit’s sails,
the
winds of faith I wholly have in him.
O my
baby bros! Who uppercuts
two
cops in one blow! Yet,
amid
this electrical victory,
I hear
Ezra’s grievous voice: “And then
went
down to the ship,” a few feet away,
yet
Ezra Pound’s not standing there.
“Set
keel to breakers, forth on the godly sea;”
I
chase his voice toward the cliff-top’s forest-
edge—”And
we set up mast and sail on
that
swart ship, bore sheep aboard her,
and
our bodies also heavy with weeping”—
then,
as I enter the forest “and winds
from
sternward bore us out onward,” Ezra roars,
blaring
the cardinals out of their trees
while
a red-robed man stands suddenly before me—
holy!
Holy! Holy! Holy! Dante
Alighieri!
Dante Alighieri,
haloed
here before me in this wood
no
longer dimly with the dying light!
O visage with the strangest smile!
O blackened brow and tan from hell!
O eyes wherein white sight still swims
with style—
who’ll out-see your eyes no eyes can tell!
I’ve never forgotten your diamonding soul,
away from fiends who want their victim’s
fate,
upon the peak where you guard Heaven’s
gate,
where you found peace from this black
hole.
O Alighieri, guardian of grave-
yards, the array of the works you have
signed with your verve
will never be wiped from the rising wall
of time.
You will live as much as God Himself
since Heaven has learned, as well as hell,
to stammer your Cantos, O poet, my angel.
“Holy!
Holy! Holy! Holy! Crito
Di
Volta! Crito Di Volta,
found
amid this wood upon a cliff,
overlooking
the city he was born in.
O
Crito—you sorrowed forth
like
Leopardi—I love you; and, after
following
my footfalls a while, you will
freely
shepherd hosts of souls to Paradise,
while
on your own way there—you’ll understand,
like
your first language, more about
just
who and what you are.” My whole face,
yellow
from Dante’s high-beaming halo, smiles.
“I’m
always watching you from Heaven’s gate,
which
I still guard throughout sublimely days;
and,
throughout so many nights, I descend
to
where you are on downcast earth,
where
I have stood before you, stood behind
you,
stood beside you, since your birth.
I was
with you those times when you prayed for a sign.
I was
with you those times when you yearned for your death.
I was
with you the time when you owned the stigmata,
saw
what you saw and felt what you felt, see
what
you see and feel what you feel, my god-
son,
who as I have known you, at last, knows
me. O
you, assigned to me by the Father,
before
your parents ever shared a kiss.
Yet I
am also here to ask you this:
why
did you tie the world-bell’s rope
of
Mortarismo with the hyper-striking
viper
of the Patients’ Revolution, which
will
rive the “sane” and the “insane” even more,
sowing
hate in the “insane” and shame in
the
“sane,” naturally; and, soon enough,
unnaturally,
by the Baphometians who
will
shanghai, then ill-rule the Movement
altogether,
whether you are bought or not.
There
is one to come who’s greater than you,
who’ll
sever the snake from the rope of the bell,
which
will be rung—but not by you, my godson.
You
will never ring the bell, nor hear it while you trail-
blaze
your immolative life on earth;
yet,
with mirth, will hear it from Paradise.
Though
all of your verses were destined to be
sung,
not all you say and do is thoroughly right,
for
you have not wholly surrendered yourself
to the
Trinity. Your entirety you’ll
soon
surrender, lest divinest ties are
riven
asunder. Crito, follow me.”
We
tread some jutting stones toward a pool
where
I can barely hear my leader speak
because
of the western waterfall’s crashing.
From
the water’s edge I see a near-blinding
light
at the bottom of the pool, which
arises;
and, O, the haloed head of a girl
shatters
the water-surface, breaking and beaming
into
the air, wearing dove-white medieval armour.
Her
short dark hair is cut straight across her golden
brow.
She slowly steps toward the stony
shore
where I stand with Saint Dante, open-
mouthed—Joan
of Arc approaching like
a
Season, her endless eyes’ violet beams
illuming
faces of the cliff-side. She takes my
hands
like highest compliments, her equatorial
ardour
full-exuding from her armour—
(Saint
Joan of Arc! Saint Joan of Arc!)
She
pulls me toward the pool she purifies white
with
her lightly multi-laser sword—the pool
of the
waterfall, edged at the Mountain Brow, all
misty
in the midnight, where she lays her
hands
upon my head and plunges me deep
into
the water with the vehemence of
a teen
suppressing, into her subconscious,
some
unattainable dream for which she can
no
longer authentically live. I do
not
choke on pure baptismal water,
I,
breathless, jaw-dropped from the ultra awe
arise
from the Heaven-white waves, whipping
my
head, born anew, in the arms of the Saint
who
fully embraces me, who leads me shoreward
then
states: “you are born anew, and, now ...”
while
she raises her upturned hands I
levitate
a foot above the pool—
I
dripping like one who has only known water;
I dripping
like one who’s known air the first time;
I
feeling just the pinch of water-fall mist,
I
knowing that, henceforth, I must do
the
will of God, alone, unmingled with
my
own; and surrender to Him, alone,
speaking
only when He opens my mouth
with
His voice, alone, when He explodes me
into
Scripture, any-where, or newly-
refracts
His orders through me, from Heaven.
I
dripping like one who has only known water,
I
dripping like one who’s known air the first time,
and,
now, I’m whirling clock-wise, my addictions,
my
lusts, my vices, my illness
–all
these leeches of my vital essence–
rent
from me. I feel no more wrath.
My
face is strain-free as a baby’s.
I feel
Dante feeling what I’m feeling:
the
lightness of spirit that soars a seraphim.
I
slowly, downwardly float toward
the
water, after which I reunite
with
Dante Alighieri on
the
rocks, once more, wherefrom we see
the
Maid of Orleans fade into the air
of an
unindifferent Universe. “So,
now,
do you see the contradictions of
the
two seditions you birthed and raised?
Yes, Padrino. My slate-clean spirit’s
only wish is to light-speedily spread
God’s
word, and only God’s word, O Titan!
While
catching full sight of a fast-falling star
blazing
inside my periphery, Dante
disappears
... Outside the flaming Century
Manor,
where the patients are winning
the
battle for its massive patio,
Flavia,
with a wide birch-bough,
rams
the Manor’s northern door. I
tackle
Flavia into high bushes, hiding
us
both from the enemies. “What
the
fuck are you doing, comrade?!
Flav, we must wave the white flag
now—surrender our forces, lest our souls
be dashed by the Almighty’s wrath! I know
this all must sound so dense, but we must
wave
the white flag; do you understand,
comrade?
Faced
down, Flavia thrashes frenziedly,
but
cannot break away from me. Through her
iPhone
I order a full surrender
despite
our oncoming victory.
Soon,
no more roars, nor shots, nor battle-
cries,
just the march of oncoming officers
shining
bright lights into the high bushes.
Nobel Prize nominee Marc di Saverio's Sanatorium Songs was hailed as "The greatest poetry debut in 25 years," in Canadian Notes and Queries Magazine. Di Saverio won a City of Hamilton Arts Award for Best Emerging Writer, and his work has beenbroadcast by BBC Radio 3. Publications include translations: Ship of Gold:The Essential Poems of Emile Nelligan (Vehicule Press,) and an epic poem, Crito Di Volta, to international critical acclaim. Di Saverio's poem, "Weekend Pass," was adapted for film. CANDY, directed by Cassandra Cronenberg, stars the author himself, and was selected for the Toronto International Film Festival. Marc di Saverio lives in Ontario, where he's writing his first novel,The Daymaker.
https://www.amazon.com/Crito-Volta-hybrid-Essential-Poets/dp/1771835214/ref=sr_1_1?dchild=1&keywords=marc+di+saverio&qid=1631235364&s=books&sr=1-1
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