Joseph Fasano
@josephfasano.bsky.social
18K followers 270 following 1.1K posts
Writer, Teacher | helping people write and be heard | Founder, Fasano Academy, educating the whole human being
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josephfasano.bsky.social
I will never, ever get over this.
josephfasano.bsky.social
How does the writer bear witness in dark times? What can words do in the face of tyranny? Where is the place for the human imagination in a time of AI? What can we do with the ancient practices of art and philosophy?

11/9, 1 PM Eastern. Let the human voice speak.
josephfasano.bsky.social
All are welcome to join this communal discussion led by poet and professor Joseph Fasano on November 9. To register, email [email protected].
josephfasano.bsky.social
There should be a "not interested because this is AI" button so the algorithm can learn how much humans don't want that stuff.
josephfasano.bsky.social
My Grandma Fasano has left this world. If you're Italian, you know that means there will never be that particular kind of love, that Sunday feast again.
josephfasano.bsky.social
translation by Gregory Hays
josephfasano.bsky.social
Marcus Aurelius, Meditations, Book 9:
And you can also commit injustice by doing nothing.
Reposted by Joseph Fasano
josephfasano.bsky.social
From this fact we can infer who has a vested interest in what is and isn't taught.
josephfasano.bsky.social
An educational system that does not sufficiently teach history will create students who do not sufficiently know how to recognize tyranny as it arrives.
josephfasano.bsky.social
My poem "October," which was published in @bostonreview.bsky.social and on @poetsorg.bsky.social, and which will be in my upcoming New and Selected Poems from BOA Editions:
October

This is the season in which the lambs begin
to die, in which the boy in his red and blue plaid

shirt gets down on his wrists and his knees to crawl
into the moorland at night and spread a cross of pumice

on their foreheads, in which he reads to them a hymn
like a freighter burning with a cargo of ripened fruit

because in the morning he will have to kill them.
Because in the morning he will wake to find his father

standing in the hall like a horse with a lamp in its mouth
and he will have to wade into a river with only that silence

in his arms, and he will harm them. Because every year
I watch him stand at the threshold of a season and begin

to call them, to hold the ruined bodies of the dead
with only a dim chord of flame between his lips

and to touch them, to touch them
and to be with them, to touch them

and to sing with them, the way a child
touches everything, with the hand of his murderer.

—Joseph Fasano