What’s the purpose of all this writing?
Does it mean anything?
I mean does it mean anything to anyone other than myself
and does that even matter?
I stood up and my little bones creaked and it made me
feel old and it made me feel human.
I’m not a super hero. In fact these days I’m not even God
as my martyr complex goes the way of the Loch Ness Monster and Al Capone’s
vault.
I saw Geraldo Rivera at Passover a few years back. I said
hello because I’ve always been drawn to pseudo celebrities and their insufferable
politics.
What’s the purpose of all these cave drawings?
Do they have any purpose?
I mean do they have a purpose to more than just the cave
dwellers who are willing to risk their lives spelunking in the dark after hours?
I stood up and my little bones creaked in protest as I
attempted to walk into the kitchen for a quick bite.
I’m not a monster. In fact these days even being called
the spawn of Satan doesn’t fit me like it once possibly did.
I’m growing older as I consider throwing in the towel and
forgetting about all of these high minded ideals as the status fucking quo
calls out to me like a death sentence from a bygone era.
Charles Cicirella
7/18/16
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