Thursday, January 05, 2017

Eleventh Poem

This poem is already in an ashcan in my mind.
Katie gets that I am burning and no extinguisher will ever put out this fire.
She understands better than most that I am alive only when plugging away at these keys and the rest of the time I’m a shadow of a former self I never wanted to meet because my expectations were always grander than the actual reality playing out like a losing football game.

And Juliet perhaps she’s onto something when saying I talk too much about wanting to see a woman’s naked body so this time I’ll leave the objectification on the cutting floor.
The last time I had sex was at a Red Roof Inn in Columbus, Ohio. The blow job was memorable and doggy style was not too shabby, but the rest I still question like bad judgement or lunchmeat left in the fridge for too long.
I believed I was past my expiration date then in July of 2014 something kicked me in the head and I found the words again pouring out like they did when I was in my twenties.

Art is God even though I am not entirely convinced it works the other way around.
“Ring down when you’re ready, baby, I’m waiting for you”
“I believe in the impossible, you know that I do”

This poem is, I guess, the forensic evidence that I did once exist.
Of course that’s up to debate depending on who you talk to and who didn’t have a grudge against me when I went up in flames like a tanker truck whose driver was asleep at the wheel.
I’m not suggesting that I’ve been negligent just that tilting at all of these windmills has made me tired as I put down my boxing gloves and exit the ring.

Charles Cicirella

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