Headphones on.
“Tiger in My
Tank.”
I’m restless.
Reservations
prod me toward the edge of another Tomorrowland
cliff.
You write
poetry like its disco and it sickens me to my very core.
Squeeze the
words out of your brain-tube and paint as thick as Vincent did when the muse
was going down on him, but refused to let him finish.
I’m catatonic.
Patron saints
like Walt Disney animals exist all around me speaking in their squeaky voices
trying to get me to do things that wouldn’t be good for anyone.
I say let them
build the Mosque next to the DQ / Orange Julius, next to the Elks Lodge, next
to the Temple behind the car wash.
You’d think
people who were religious would be the most tolerant when exactly the opposite proves
to be the case.
Except for the
temper tantrum Christ had over the money changers when he cleansed the Temple
he appears to have been all about love and mercy and yet too many zealots are
killing in his esteemed name.
I want to go
the distance, but before I pledge allegiance to another flag draped in blood I
want you to reassure me the Children’s Crusades are a thing of the past and you
will not be aborting another fetus merely for sport.
Headphones on.
The Albino is
making my ears bleed.
I’m sonorous
and afraid you’re much too shallow for my erroneous tastes.
I will never
forget that day at the roller skating rink when I thought it would be funny to
hide Brenda Marcus’s wallet and all hell broke loose when it actually came up
missing.
We’re all
caterpillar astronauts in search of tang and freeze dried ice-cream to keep us
happy and somewhat pacified.
He was a demon,
but not a bad demon. In fact when it came to his demon exploits he only did
good like so many civil rights leaders and Hells Angels profess doing.
Now grab hold
of my horns because I am going to take you for the ride of your multifaceted
lives and when we’re through running through the streets of Pamplona I promise
to return you back to your sedentary and solitary life of Springsteen concerts
and kale salads.
I’m just another
mover and shaker stuck in the suburbs who has no one to blame but himself. And
when you are through wringing out another filthy white or blue collar come join
me on the upper deck before this Titanic ship starts to sink and the band begins
to play “Autumn.”
Charles Cicirella
9/22/15
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