Saturday, October 31, 2015

My Fingers Reek of Reefer (For Juliet & Klute)

Tear it all down.
In this poem I promise not to objectify a soul living or dead.
In this poem I’ll do my best to stay on topic once I figure out what that topic is.
Leave your ego and edible panties at the door.

I remember when you didn’t need me anymore.
Truth be told no one ever needs another person and nothing could be truer when it came to our sickly relationship. If it could even be called a relationship.
The body lay on the cold, unforgiving concrete waiting for a lover or stranger to recognize who it once pretended to be.
I remember when I knocked on your door and you answered with teeth bared.

My fingers reek of reefer, ass, and the inability to forge ahead with a plan that doesn’t resemble the skeletal bones of another wasted life cowering beneath the suicide tree.
I am a parser of words and it’s not because I am a writer or a poet or because I play a movie director in my free time. I am a parser of words because sometimes the only option we have left is to pick up the gauntlet and Raise High the Roof Beam, Carpenters before it’s too fucking late.
My pigeon fingers want to trace the contours of your sleeping body underneath the quilt your grandma knitted for you during her chemo treatments.
Tear it all down and replace it with something that won’t spit in your eye when you say I love you.

Charles Cicirella

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