Alessio Zaneli
Who Cares?
Anyone who believes exponential growth can go forever in a finite world is either a madman or an economist.
—KENNETH E. BOULDING
Scientists hold the age of the Earth is about 4.5 billion years. Human civilization hasn’t yet entered its tenth millennium but has already fucked up the whole of it. Who cares the generations to come, the preservation of life, the health of the planet? To put it bluntly: who cares about the future? All that occupies our mind is today, tomorrow morning at most. Who bloody cares the species reduced to extinction, the savage deforestation, the toxic air we breathe, the sea reduced to a dump? All we want to be concerned about is the latest in next-generation mobiles. To hell with all the rest! Why should we care? Why us and why now? It’s our turn to spoil the world! All in all the Earth is only a fleck of dust revolving around a gigantic furnace and liable to incineration any moment. Who fucking cares this doggone solar fart we inhabit?
previously unpublished
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**************** | Abscent
She has fled. Gone like morning breeze suddenly dying out at the rising of the disk above the horizon. All she has left are fragrant silences, a speckled looking glass and a vintage bottle of champagne forgotten in the fridge. What is taking her place is faint light, soaked in mugginess, barely filtering through the shutters ajar. And heavy air, smelling of heated water exhaling from the scorching tar. Her killing scent killed by the miasmas of the mushy streets, and by sugary forgetfulness.
first published in Main Street Rag (NC)
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A Dispute On Modern Physics
Fairy hands at work— unwavering realm of perfection claiming room, bliss is what it brings. Blank night, after the journey, the price to be paid. And the trivial stands as high as the peaks of thought. The yardstick’s different, as is what’s sought, restyled, displayed on stage. The mundane. Invisible divide. Cosmology. The key to cognizance, to all that out of darkness can’t be accessed. Light appeared over one life ago and you’re still blind, no … deprived of eyes! More snow collecting on glacial basins, new ice forming, but you don’t belong to ecstasy. The realm has plenty of time, if not enough to rescue you from the platitudes of certainty. So—Boltzmann, Maxwell, Planck, Einstein, Dirac. Their true identity and what their blood was really about I strive to grasp, wasting ink and hours away. I won’t succeed and—I believe—neither will fairies ever speak to me. Yet what about your grounds? Is there a point of yours or anything consistent beyond what little I can see? Indeed, anything you trust in or your erratic soul is after?
previously unpublished
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Fall
After one has walked in the sky higher than the highest clouds glorified in the purest light, it’s hard to find oneself squashed on the ground, floundering about through soggy black earth, groping in the dark in search of a way, whatever way away from shame. Now that such glare has been your undoing, you clumsy beastie puffed up with pride, don’t swear at the soil you’re worming on! That which is sticking to your hair, lodging under your nails, slipping into your eyes, well—that’s no filth at all, but your only possible salvation. So don’t despise what may appear the direst place, indeed the nastiest one for you to fall onto, as from such empty height there’s nowhere else where you could stop. And from the earthworms you touch feeling around enshrouded in blackness, from the tacky grains teeming with secret life that cover your body throughout have yourself obtain your nourishment. Now you have to place your trust in your most pristine senses and basest instincts. And be sure, once you and this mold are one, you’ll no longer wish to bask in that infinite light. Nevermore—in the misleading purity of heady altitude. Here you landed, here you belong. So weak, so blind, so lost, and yet—you still don’t know— so unprecedentedly strong.
first published in Chiron Review (KS)
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