You open yourself to experimentation . . .
to the edge of the virtual (visual?) cliff . . .
Bemused subjects . . . some with nosejobs . . . follow suit . . .
costumed . . . for understudy
leading you back to the blank pages of your grammar school
where nuns . . . in full habit . . . patrol the halls . . .
dispensing indulgences with warnings . . .
The doorbell rings . . .
you answer it . . . and vanish . . .
for seven or eight years . . .
assuming various identities . . .
selecting menu items from both columns . . .
Admittedly, not much of a musical talent . . .
Offshore, an Evinrude sputters . . .
Newsprint crawling on all fours teases
grammarians emeriti . . .
the walls of your apartment besmirched
by an unknown stand-up comic . . .
You decide not to pick up where you left off
burying yourself instead in a dogeared Whole Earth Catalog . . .
convinced that double-reeds are the way to go . . .
a contrabassoonist satisfying your oral fixation . . .
This person who shall remain nameless . . .
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| Paolo Roversi |