Words unfold in the cereal aisle of a supermarket
while in the high school
the obtuse angle in a math problem
puzzles most of the students
lost in dreams of afterschool engagements . . .
The pettiness of day
backstroking in a municipal pool of adjectives
showcases the aseptic elegance of angularities . . .
It was like that, yes? . . .
for most of us posting the past
with escape routes to explain why . . .
The time for the obligatory song has passed . . .
Welcome to your life
There's no turning back . . .
You are held prisoner in a trap of disbelief
choreographing rewrites
that clutter your mind's transfer station
for the souls of the forgotten . . .
Why then the passport makes no sense, yes? . . .
The pop-up expands into extra innings
making it almost seem worthy
of the nonsense syllables
transcribed onto a faux scroll . . .
This maelstrom of bittersweet streams
is nothing new . . .
nothing you had not mastered
in the stairwell of the apartment building
where you had set up shop so to speak
that since has been razed
for the plans of wheeler dealers . . .
Your habitual scribbling about one-trick ponies
with empty pockets or empty sockets
suffers a conclave of nostalgia . . .
troubling knowledge of what will happen
when the fat lady has sung . . .
the time oppotune for boilerplate logic . . .
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| Antonio Palmerini |