I won’t submit!

I won’t submit!

I won’t submit!


And don’t you go

Call it an anaphora

And don’t you call it

A Eucharist offering from the Gods

Or a filiating elusive enigma


And don’t you go dissecting

My synecdoches, metonymies

alliterations or

scandalous enjambement

scrutinizing with your detective lens

for the quid that makes it not

prose dedicated to a rose


Consider it an entreaty

To never cross the thresholds

Of power or wear the laurels

Of Institutes or Embassies


An invitation to sneak

Between the folds of life proper

Elude deliberately constructed bare lives

And forked tongued Homo Sacer


Consider it a call to thread barefoot

Amid the unsanitized dust

Of the Mariupol theatre

Where no applause is forthcoming

From the palms of unsubscribing ghosts

And absorb in your farthest pores

All false hopes and terror until

All rhetoric is stilled and the bare bones

Exhumed and appropriately mourned


The slippage of the syllable

The slippage of the image

Is not Submissible

No UNESCO appointed Poetry Day

Can cleanse the daily poisoning

Of the 7-year-old Congolese miner

Small enough to fit in a tunnel

To feed our cell phones Coltan

As the spring of his youth has just begun


So, let’s not spill our syllables in vain

Let them unceremoniously be hurled

To halt the worldwide machine not to adorn

The dying world or cover up its stench.


Pina Piccolo, Imola May 20, 2023

the First Day of Spring


Cover image: The great Flood, fresco at the Santa Caterina di Alessandria Basilica in  Galatina (lecce- italy)