Tuesday, March 10, 2015

Words Untoward


Seems like everyone is writing poetry these days.
It’s not such a hard job. Just string together some pearls and get out of the way.
I’ve never really thought of myself as a poet. That’s an eminent title and I’m more of a shoe polisher than a Poet, Pope or Virgin Mother.

Believe in a reversal of misfortune it’s about all you have to do.
Just grab hold of the Technicolor rainbow and don’t look back unless you want to turn into a pillar of salt like Lot’s wife did so many years ago.
I remember hanging out with Nero as Rome burned and how disappointed he was when trying to bum a cigarette and I told him I don’t smoke.

Seems like everyone wants to be radicalized these days.
First there was a war on drugs then there was a war on terror and neither one of them really seemed to do much good. In fact I believe in both cases the allotted targets only grew bigger and more out of control.
You want to change the world? Forget about it because the world is one hard headed mofo and the blood and grease on our hands is only going to get thicker because when push comes to shove we’re all Catholic priests with an altar boy or two in our closets.

These words are untoward. These words are broken, scarred and disassembled.
I’m no Mary Poppins and even if I was I would prefer you kept Lady Gaga and her duplicitous tributes to yourself.
The very first poem I ever wrote was about the moon. Before I die I hope to write a poem about shooting the moon. Groucho Marx was a poet. Karl Marx not so much, but I believe both men were dyed in the wool romantics.

Seems like everyone is writing their very own obituary these days.
They start with all of these verbose adjectives that leave you wondering who they’re even talking about and before you know it they’re out of breath and wishing they’d been put out to pasture long before the stars were torn down.
I want to die, but not because I am a fatalist but simply because I believe death will give me more of an edge. Please understand I am in no hurry to spiral off this mortal coil, but when it does happen I will lean into it like all good poets do.

Charles Cicirella

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