Tuesday, March 03, 2015

Lose Your Footing

(For Darin Bulai)


Basking in the American Graffiti moonlight.
A freeloading carpet bagging spirit-guide entrepreneur.
Slicing the uninherited wind into pieces and parts with a Cuisinart tongue mind-set
He commences soon after the werewolves have turned back into men and the vampires have retired to their subterranean motor-home coffins.

Broken and there is not enough Scotch Tape to repair these forsaken stigmata Romanesque ruinous wounds.
When staring up into the sky all that was there to fixate upon were clouds and more billowing clouds of thunder and thorn in the side Kabuki theatre political missteps.
Tired and listless like Sonny Liston after Cassius Clay beat the holy hell out of him in Miami Beach.
We’re all just miners mining for a heart of gold and a stampede of gold nugget words to ease us into our own desperate attempts for greatness or something resembling our better and less beleaguered Babe Ruth selves.

She wanted to sell my Star Wars collectibles because she believed she was owed a payday after putting up with all of my clinging and clawing behaviors. I warned her I possessed the claws of a sloth on sabbatical and was ready and willing to bring her down if it meant three square meals a day and a blow job on Presidents’ Day.
She was Pavlov and I was the dog salivating whenever she entered the room because I believed she was bringing me salvation or at the very least sustenance and a chew toy.
We were your typical broken record and I am sick and tired of how easy it is to now make a playlist, put it on shuffle and play it anywhere you like including the shower when you are drowning your sorrows in fifty shades of your own filth.

I believe in another life I was Sally Hemings and preferred it when Thomas Jefferson, Father of Democracy would give it to me from behind so I wouldn’t have to watch as his face scrunched up like a Red Delicious apple right before he climaxed inside like any free man has a tendency to do when sodomizing a slave they foolishly believe they own.
Kilroy was here or at least I think he was here. It is hard to keep track of his comings and goings when he is still so popular and every wall desires a piece of him.
He writes like the unseen wind and I cannot wait till I can put on a cloak of invisibility and lose myself in a lion’s share of his word puzzle requiems for a persona non grata quest for the Holy truncated Grail.

Charles Cicirella

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