Tear
it all down.
It
makes no difference anyhow.
And
this poem probably will not impress you, but that’s not my problem and even if
it was I wouldn’t own up to it.
There
is shit and there is shinola and what’s in between is anyone’s guess in these
hellfire times where the good guys are on the run and the terrorists rule the
roost.
It’s
no small thing being a rock ‘n’ roll intergalactic luminary especially when the
underground has gone the way of New
Sensations and the wolf that was once waiting patiently at the door has
been fed upon by vampire sheep high on a tenured professor’s blood.
You
didn’t feel like going anywhere. You wanted to stay in and deconstruct more
songs from your fractured brainstem, but oftentimes when the creative juices
start to flow you lose all control and it’s no longer up to you who will stay
and who will go.
Some
people have no clue what it even means to make a difference in this corrugated
world of snapchat and drones that go bump in the night, while you have always
been aware of how out of control things can get once the doors of perception
have been cleansed and you go cold turkey from the Ritalin you’ve been taking
since you were a hyperactive child and focus was a burden you could not square.
It
really doesn’t matter if we ever play together because your diddley bow
strangulated anti-sounds will reverberate inside my skullbank until I’m either
freed from my chains or my chains do me in.
And
this poem. This poem is just my way of saying thank you for never backing away
from the fire because you know better than most if you don’t burn then what’s
even the sense of waking up in the morning and taking a big, healthy dump?
Charles Cicirella
12/18/15
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