Because there are dead who with their words and actions remind and criticize us, spur us on and question us, inspire and console us. We may no longer be able to look them in the eye, but they are there, at our side – perhaps inciting us to unleash the bad passion, not take over the means of production, to savor joy armed, not chase after worker's power.

The fanfare of the oppressors is at work. Everyone tears their clothes, faced with yet another slaughter of a girl perpetrated by the ex-boyfriend tormentor. Everyone is climbing on the bandwagon of the Good: polished fascists, very chic and not very radical leftoids, movement activists always ready to ask the state to do something, pious souls who aren’t able to understand how the children of this society can be as possessive as they are brutal. This whole bandwagon, in every one of its gestures, in every one of its moments, in every one of its steps, always brings us back to reality: this is certainly a rotten world, but without a bit of slavery, a…

Stubborn is the one who keeps sticking his head into the infinite darkness of the world. Full of wounds, he is very often not able to bear the desolation of life, the suffering that surrounds us, the pain that digs deeper and deeper into us. Not at all easy to turn on a small light in the world where there are few eyes able to catch sight of it. Sometimes when walking in broad daylight, everything goes dark. It’s not easy to retrace the same roads, like red Indians, who follow the same paths trying to stop time.

Open (desperate) letter to those who eat our same bread

There are two historical events that happened a month apart from each other, which in my mind remain closely linked. One (very well-known) evokes for me the other (unknown to most). This is why the clamor aroused by the centenary of the event that marked the rise of fascism to power, the march on Rome of October 28, 1922, could only bring to my mind the disappearance of the anarchist Renzo Novatore, outlaw and poet, killed by the carabinieri during a firefight on November 29 of the same year near Genoa.

A poem by a wandering rebel poet

The tsunami is a strange phenomenon. It is perhaps the most predictable in the world. An earthquake moves thousands of tons of water. A wall of energy slowly moves toward the coast. The sea level drops by several meters. It would be so easy to notice and take refuge in the mountains, in the shelter, to understand how to resist the impact of the wave. Yet the disappearing water attracts the curious. Everyone has her own profit to seek in the sands of the bottom. Everyone has a pearl that dazzles him. Until the water arrives and sweeps everything away.