Asa Nisi Masa


I am thinking of a word, a shibboleth
scribbled in Cherokee, which signifies
a place where we might meet,
unless you accidentally mispronounce it
as percussion and ocean sounds.

It is rather like the child’s word,
the magical word, the one the mentalist
divined from Mastroianni’s mind in 8 ½.

Remember?

Dear reader if you do, you are either
well versed in Italian cinema, or
coming up hard on senior citizen discounts.

I will give you a hint:

I recall a beat-up VW, squealing around the schoolyard,
an older couple in it, disguised with wax lips
and Buddy Holly glasses with big fake noses;
they were shooting water pistols and laughing
their asses off. I took them as my paradigm
of maturity.

Does that help?

I fear, unless someone from the Paint Clan comes
to whisper something in your ear, we may never meet.

Do you have my word yet?
Do you have your own?