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Peter Piccolomini

Updated: Mon, 15 Jul 2019 04:35 pm

peter.piccolomini@gmail.com

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Biography

I was born in Leominster, Mass on a cold day. It was a small manufacturing town mainly made up of Italians and French. Where the river that runs through it is filthy like the worst day in hell. In the early 1970's, my family moved to Southern Indiana in a dreary and desolate town called Newburgh on the Ohio River. There was no salami or fresh Italian bread at the grocery, and the Bruins were not on T.V., so we hated it there. I realized I was a poet by age 9 on a bus ride coming home from elem.school. I discovered what it felt like to live where there was a certain chill in the air in late autumn, a definite darkness, and a countryside filled with beautiful corn fields. I loved to daydream. Originally,I had no friends, so I couldn't wait to get home and write about my displacement in life. I felt empowered, not self pity. My life is a rough draft, so I wanted to share that with you here. And no matter what happens in my life - Still, I rise.

Solution to a View

Solution to a View I wrote this after reading some John Ashbery and James Cavanaugh, because well, I wanted to-- and they are different writers offering many options and feelings or no feelings at all. “I am one of the searchers. There are, I believe, millions of us. We are not unhappy, but neither are we really content. We continue to explore life, hoping to uncover its ultimate secret. – James Cavanaugh Solution to a View What does it mean To wander into concrete places or an open field To dangle time like the wizard of waste something floats all around me and is serious but it could be nothing To be selfish And lonely Searching Through hills And unsure of the surprises in a melted state over discouragement And bewilderment of why I even cared about the View after it rained and after it displayed open access to death or a dream or my future noticeable and unwanted and unsure chills run through my veins and aching bones of the likelihood of this memory To these hills hands held high look down now on empty streets broken and mended like details of a mirror and out of respect for the view

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Comments

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Devon Brock

Mon 15th Jul 2019 23:28

Hello Peter. Funny how displacement can turn us inward. I, for one, was yanked from my MD wood, packed up with the clothes, flatware, and ambitions not my own and unpacked into Illinois. So your bio and sample struck a chord. Thank you for joining us. Looking forward to more.

D

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