"I am a man without sin. A man without sin can do anything." Like a drunken fugue, we pass from dream to reality and back. Much like a train knifing through space and time, we never seem to arrive at a permanent destination and always succumb to the gravitational forces that pull us back toward it - all with a soft but desperate hope that it will take us to some other place that will better suit us, someplace safe, away from the troublesome affairs of others. Some would prefer to stay motionless while others embrace their itinerant lives, hopping from one place to another, not really knowing where they're going or for how long they'll stay, always needing to go on to the next station. Iacapo exists in this constant in between phase, in the passage between fiction and truth. This poem-as-novel story is seen through his uncompromising eye, a vision of a world that is both clearer and more fragmented than our own, in a sort of pathological contextless state of being. We're told right from the beginning that Iacopo considers himself limitless, somehow above this grounding morality where matters are mundanely what they seem to be. The world created in this story is recognizable to us, but Iacapo, the passenger, is an eternal stranger both to himself and to others. Did he really kill someone or is that speculation, a part of other people's fantasies about who he is?
"I am a man without sin. A man without sin can do anything." Like a drunken fugue, we pass from dream to reality and back. Much like a train knifing through space and time, we never seem to arrive at a permanent destination and always succumb to the gravitational forces that pull us back toward it - all with a soft but desperate hope that it will take us to some other place that will better suit us, someplace safe, away from the troublesome affairs of others. Some would prefer to stay motionless while others embrace their itinerant lives, hopping from one place to another, not really knowing where they're going or for how long they'll stay, always needing to go on to the next station. Iacapo exists in this constant in between phase, in the passage between fiction and truth. This poem-as-novel story is seen through his uncompromising eye, a vision of a world that is both clearer and more fragmented than our own, in a sort of pathological contextless state of being. We're told right from the beginning that Iacopo considers himself limitless, somehow above this grounding morality where matters are mundanely what they seem to be. The world created in this story is recognizable to us, but Iacapo, the passenger, is an eternal stranger both to himself and to others. Did he really kill someone or is that speculation, a part of other people's fantasies about who he is?
