Thursday, January 12, 2017

Eighth Poem (Oh Hear Ye, Oh Hear Ye)

Waiting at the train station for Robert Johnson to arrive with the words in a battered leather valise.
I met Robert Jr. Lockwood one time.
In my mind it was midnight and there was nothing left to shut us down, but our own fears we’d never be immortal enough for the after party of our ever dying episodic lives.

She limped into the room like a unicorn sick and tired of being legendary because it never truly got down to what was really going on and anyhow existing on the fringes of every little girls sugar and spice and everything nice dreams was killing her in rainbow sprinkled degrees of duress and capitulation.
I watched most of his press conference and all I kept thinking was is this all that we deserve and why do we continue allowing this monster to get away with continually taking us down more than a peg or two as the store stays open late and we’re all inconvenienced for his inability to love anyone but himself and even his self-love is tainted and reeks of ambiguity and dalliances of erector set hopelessness.
Do you recall when you channeled the best parts of yourself and were not just propped up there like a stuffed bald eagle in desperate need for a form of patriotism that steered clear of jingoism and did not believe the lesser of two evils was the only choice we had left to choose?

She took off her top and showed me just what I had been missing before Ginsberg’s lamentations for Naomi rang in my ears like a pop song gone flat and only when the carbonation is driven out of Canaan does any of this actually make a lick of pistachio sense.
You want good to the last drop? Well too bad because this is what I have to offer and either you take it or you’ll be left waiting like another virgin auctioning off her purity online.
Scatterlogical. None of this makes any sense and when I got the call at JR Miggs that he was dead I knew that episode of my life was over and what would come next was anyone’s guess.

Charles Cicirella

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