Thursday, August 27, 2015

Percolating (For Joni Soule)

Words haunt me like a reverie.
Words hunt me down like a Siberian tiger.
Words hurled at me like a handful of bad medicine.

Opened the can of ginger ale praying it would take care of my upset stomach.
Lowered my guard believing we would get on like the best of friends during the worst and most inopportune of times.
I have this bad habit of expecting people to deliver on the promises they haven’t even promised me. I’m funny that way like Judy Garland in her prime or Groucho Marx during his last appearance on The Dick Cavett Show.

Words bring out the very best and all the rest in me.
Words channel their wild-thing-energies as the mask slips from my Easter Island face.
Words give more of a shit than most people I know who are disingenuous at best and completely beyond reproach when their backs are nailed to the unaffected wall.

So tired of attempting share my work with other writers and never hearing anything back because their either too busy wrestling with their own angels or haven’t the good sense to allow outside voices inside their Wallace and Gromit heads.
Sick of fighting myself at every turn as I call everyone else out for the skeletons in their closets while refusing to open my own Pandora’s Box of transgressions and wrongdoings.
Ready and willing to go the distance once I’ve changed my shoes and made a real effort to destroy my bad attitudes once and for all.

Words like a trail of breadcrumbs lead me through a forest primeval of grim self- realizations.
Words exacting a toll that I find more and more perilous to wrap my creativity around as I sacrifice another precious memory to the great God Pan.
Words thrown out with both the baby and the bathwater as the next poem percolates and another cup of coffee grows taciturn.

Charles Cicirella

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