I don’t write with meaning in mind.
I don’t read with meaning ever escaping and
outlasting prisons of time.
I like it when you slap me with your enduring
recklessness.
I braved the storm as the snow beat through us
like a frozen heartbeat.
You’re not a soldier no matter how many uniforms
you wear.
You’re not a lover no matter how many kisses you
place on the Buddha’s forehead.
I don’t believe in beliefs and that is why I’ll
never be a zealot or a zebra trainer.
I don’t portend to change the world with obvious
puns or crossword puzzles dipped in honey and oxblood.
I still can recall the first time we met.
You were fancy and I was a stumblebum and nothing
has changed and it never will.
I don’t write with mind in meaning.
I don’t covet the messages in a bottle because I
know alcoholism will only leave you helplessly blind and desiring even more
moral ambiguity.
She was disingenuous to a fault, but I forgave her
trespasses because the way she moaned was like a cavalcade of whispering
fanatics.
And when we made love I felt completely free for
the first time in my Purina Puppy Chow life.
Charles
Cicirella
2/21/16
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