Wednesday, September 24, 2014

The Desert

This poem is about revealing one’s true nature and not about little blue pills or who can last longer in a Cage of Death match.
This poem is about discovering one’s body of work before rigor mortis sets in and not about leaving a good looking corpse or only the good dying young.
This poem is about jumping into the deep end and not about easing into the pool like some decaying fossil that never had their wits about them or cared about making a lasting impression.

The desert calls you up in the middle of the Lite-Brite day. You’re wearing baggy shorts and drinking OJ from a Smuckers’ Looney Tunes jelly glass.
I know you’re not Dylan, fuck you’re not even Donovan, but that doesn’t mean a thing as long as you believe in something more than reality television or paying for phone sex with your PayPal account.
I knew a guy who could wipe you out with his smile and fever pitched repartee. He was also pretty straight up and did not once take me for granted or make me feel like I was worthless.

This poem is about hunkering down and delivering the real goods no matter the climate change outside or the seismic shifts inside your own domesticated firestorm.
This poem is about taking the Dog Day Afternoon hostage even when you’re feeling less than inspired and robbing a bank or creating some new artwork is the last thing you have on your mind.
This poem is not about forgiving anyone because forgiveness can be way overrated in these sepia toned times where religion just fucks with your head and Sigmund Freud never really wanted to help you make sense of your dreams or why it is you’re such a motherfucker.

We need not be ill-equipped or ill-advised.
We need not stay out of the fray just because we’re afraid to express how we actually feel or why it is we’re angry all of the time.
We need not hang back from the edge of the cliff because if we don’t learn to embrace our fear of heights we’ll never learn to fly.

Charles Cicirella

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