Luigi Monteferrante is Canadian-Italian author whose works have appeared in Chicago Quarterly Review, Neon, Happy, Yellow Mama, Wordslaw. After completing a second novel in Fall 2007, he's more recently morphed into a singing troubadour:
www.myspace.com/mcmontylive.
Some of the poems have been transformed to song. Additionally, Luigi is involved in coordinating the following literary event:
Kickstart your own personal Rinascimento!
JOIN Francine Prose, Robert Coover, Mary Di Michele & Vittorio Rossi,
for 2 weeks of Creative Writing Workshops
on Italy's Adriatic Coast in Vasto, Abruzzo, 15-30 May 2009,
only 45 minutes south of Pescara Airport, 3 hrs east of Rome.
Bursaries & publication can also be won by sending poems & fiction to:
Summer Literary Seminars 2009 Writing Contest
www.sumlitsem.org
JOIN Francine Prose, Robert Coover, Mary Di Michele & Vittorio Rossi,
for 2 weeks of Creative Writing Workshops
on Italy's Adriatic Coast in Vasto, Abruzzo, 15-30 May 2009,
only 45 minutes south of Pescara Airport, 3 hrs east of Rome.
Bursaries & publication can also be won by sending poems & fiction to:
Summer Literary Seminars 2009 Writing Contest
www.sumlitsem.org
Listen!
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buckshot.mp3 Size : 3.663 Kb Type : mp3 |
BUCKSHOT
We sat in the back seat
Of a rusted station wagon
Parked on blocks of wood
Chopped from trees
In the fields of grass
Or meadows
On the windows
Spider webs of a frosty morn
And its epicenter
A bullet hole
Instead of a spider
And in the back seat
Between me and you
A bag of old bones
And we were wondering
Who it could be
Instead of
Could've been
Very much alive
To us
Me and you
For who could believe
We'd commit such a foul deed
Last spring
When playing with daddy's buckshot
And who could believe
One shot was all it took
To do him in
So what could we say
What we said
Accident
But he's got five
Five shots fired
One by one
And reloaded
One by one
And reloaded
I dunno
Was all we said
You're the smart one
And you cried
While I sat smoking a cigar
Watching the spidery web melting
With that flashlight burning down
On us
And the bag of bones
Who could it be?
And what did we do
That couldn't have been done sooner
Sparing ourselves plenty of trouble
And plenty of pain
Which is why we got rid
Of that son of a gun
In the back seat
Of our wagon
It was
High noon
