Monday, September 21, 2015

Get Out of the Bag I’m in (For Fred & Howard)

Dust mites attack from all directions.
Blueprints no longer doing the trick.
I’m at a loss for words.
I’m at a loss for master strokes.

Being a visionary is not as easy or as effortless as it may appear to those who have never had an original thought.
To raise the roof you must first have burned down plenty of barns. And if you’re not barnstorming then what’s even the point of your existence?
Word gymnastics are blasé and only work in slam competitions. If you strive to work and write in the trenches and not simply type yourself out of another personal crisis then you must first learn to sacrifice like Christ and his 13 Apostles did. Yes I am including Mary Magdalene in that rather audacious and somewhat labor intensive comparison.
Let’s make something out of nothing. Once you’ve successfully done that don’t forget to make it your own with your sweat and blood poured into the grooves of your next number one record.

Uncloud your head.
Your soul must be fed.
Uncloud your heart.
Your psyche mustn’t go dark.

I’m as liberal as they come until someone argues with me about taking away their guns.
I may just have to point my typewriter at their open mouths and shoot some poison darts down their slip, slide and away gullets.
We trespass on perfect strangers without even giving it a second thought. This social networking is for the angry birds. I’m dumbfounded by your inability to recognize what I’m capable of.
Is it vanity or mere stupidity getting in the way of your understanding how far we could go if you’d only allow me in and stop pretending your kingdom is the only game in town?

I remember the first time I was pigeonholed and how it felt to have my feathers plucked out one by one from my pink, tender skin.
I didn’t like it one bit when you reminded me this was all my fault on account of not being able to hold my tongue and for striking back against my oppressors without a practical stratagem.
I was hiding out trying to regain focus when everything became blurred and I couldn’t remember my own name or who the President of the United States was.
I’m sure there’s a lesson to be learned as I grow my fingernails and toenails as long as the Mississippi River and try to unburden myself from the deceitfulness of my flowing subconscious.

Charles Cicirella

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