A dropdown menu of grayed-out options
is about to announce your seeming willingness
to engage theater as theater . . .
After all, it’s all theater, yes? . . .
Even the garnish on your takeout . . .
So how about a share plate of edibles
selected with care
by your favorite chef-de-cuisine-du-jour? . . .
enough to dampen the gratuitous hostility
of your joystick with the rag-dolled strangers
backstage urging hardtail fat bikes
down gravel paths with night moves
going meta . . . stretching like taffy
along the yellow brick road of imagination . . .
Everyone memorialized in the softcovers
cluttering your backroom
is a person of disinterest
kneejerking golden rings in fables
transcribing the blank pages of the novel
you inhabit . . . while you reach
for your autofiction trying to forget
what you saw, who you were,
fashioning orphaned marionettes to retreat
into the theme parks of your fragmented mind . . .
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| Antonio Palmerini |