I’m
losing my shit.
It’s
running down my legs.
Say
it now or forever hold your peace.
And
the poetry came to me like a thief in the night.
And
it saved me from myself and for that I’ll be forever grateful.
And
the moon hangs in the empty sky spinning its pulp fiction lies as I await
another surge of inspiration to kill me dead.
I’m
not talking about a physical death.
I
haven’t been physical with anyone for so long I’m not even sure I’d know what
to do.
As
I wrestle this existential crisis to its unforgiving, unrepentant conclusion I
swear I’m through blaming myself for not taking responsibility when a gun was
placed against my temple and I was given the choice to either give up names or
die a sniveling deserter.
We
drive through the rain like a country song that’s drunk itself into an early
grave.
We
drive until the wheels fall off and burn and that doesn’t even do the trick
convincing us we’ve pushed ourselves quite far enough.
I
became lost in the folds of your poisonous chapbooks long before discovering
myself captivated by your smelly sex and obscene gestures of self-gratification
and self-hatred and even that didn’t help me to see you for who you really are.
I
want to say it now, but what if the poetry reveals nothing more than a cathedral
full of sheepish believers praying on their rusty knees to God only knows what.
I
remember the first time I licked your finite pussy and how I did it without a
roadmap or some other GPS device leading me to the X that surely marks the
spot.
I’m
losing my shit, but I guess that’s to be expected when I was never very good at
making up for lost time or going to bed early enough so that I’m ready for a
new day and a new way to finally absolve myself of all these readymade sins.
Charles Cicirella
12/27/15
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