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The Porsche 906 Carrera 6 of Taormina/Tacci during the 1969 Targa Florio.
The Targa Florio was an open road endurance automobile race held in the mountains of Sicily near the island's capital of Palermo. Founded in 1906, it was the oldest sports car racing event, part of the World Sportscar Championship between 1955 and 1973.
After 1973, it was a national sports car event until it was discontinued in 1977 due to safety concerns.
Photo by F. & G. Scafidi.
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For The Last American Buffalo
Because words dazzle in the dizzy light of things and the soul is like an animal--hunted and slow-- this buffalo walks through me every night as if I was some kind of prairie and hunkers against the cold dark, snorting under the stars while the fog of its breathing rises in the air, and it is the loneliest feeling I know to approach it slowly with my hand outstretched to tenderly touch the heavy skull furred and rough and stroke that place huge between its ears where what I think and what it thinks are one singing thing so quiet that, when I wake, I seldom remember walking beside it and whispering in its ear quietly passing the miles, the two of us, as if Cheyenne or the lights of San Francisco were our unlikely destination and sometimes trains pass us and no one leans out hard in the dark aiming to end us and so we continue on somehow and today while the seismic quietness of the earth spun beneath my feet and while the world I guess carried on, that lumbering thing moved heavy thick and dark through the dreams I believe we keep having whether we sleep or not and when you see it again say I’m sorry for things you didn’t do and then offer it some sweet-grass and tell it stories you remember from the star-chamber of the womb or at least the latest joke, something good to keep it company as otherwise it doesn’t know you are here for love, and like the world tonight, doesn’t really care whether we live or die. Tell it you do and why.
Mettevo troppo amore anche nei silenzi che usavo per farti guerra.
Jolie Scafidi
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And what good is a dream finally? It breaks your heart and you stand in the lush dark of the moment after twilight ends and begin to sing and nothing makes sense to you and you sing louder for a while, then awkwardly sit down where you are. And the stars overhead shine a little—no more or less than usual—and whether it is daylight and they are invisible or whether it is night and they are the embers of a blacksmith’s fire, they shine and you are grateful. That love is like a hammer.
Steve Scafidi | excerpt from "The Sublime"
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Truth and beauty are not all I need to know. They never were. Though important, I need something more. It hums and whirs.
Steve Scafidi | excerpt from "Who Wants to Know What Love is Worth?"
Who Wants to Know What Love Is Worth? All my friends abandon me to work and the joy of their own lives and name their babies after myrtle trees and the dead. And so to hell with the object and correlative. I am sad and blame everyone on this earth for sadness. And so to hell with the dark capabilities of birds. Let the sad catastrophe of breathe begin its lame circulation through my lungs and let this dream of life after death make its course in a blue journal few will read. I do not care who knows my secrets and don’t want yours. The wisdom we glean is small change. Who wants to know what love is worth is a sucker. The force of two bright wings on the smallest bird imagined haunts who imagines and the engine is small like the kind on a chainsaw. Two cycles. All I want from life is to turn and turn and fall once again deeply in love with love and be delusional to the point almost exactly of incarceration. To say it is spring and stall Time long enough to watch my lover undress and oink like a pig at slaughters when she comes to bless my body with hers. When she says Oh, yes. It is spring, John Keats, and you are dead and I am sorry. Truth and beauty are not all I need to know. They never were. Though important, I need something more. It hums and whirs.
Steve Scafidi | Sparks from a Nine Pound Hammer: Poems
And the stars overhead shine a little—no more or less than usual—and whether it is daylight and they are invisible or whether it is night and they are the embers of a blacksmith’s fire, they shine and you are grateful. That love is like a hammer.
Steve Scafidi | excerpt from "The Sublime"
