Poem
is on the precipice.
The
last ladder rung.
Ready
to jump.
You
need the poem.
The
poem does not need you.
Are
you a wolf or a lamb?
It may not matter to you, but it does to Charles Darwin.
It may not matter to you, but it does to Charles Darwin.
Survival
of the fittest or survival of the one whose foul words get bleeped out faster
on network television.
Go
ahead and swear like a sailor or an English matron whose dildo never quite fit
properly.
I
am going to tell you something then I’m not going to say it again.
Poem
is circling the drain.
The
last vestiges of hope when a child becomes an adult and forgets about the blood
and the passion of an awkward adolescence.
You
want reality TV? Why when real life is happening all around you? Take a bite
out of the apple and never look the serpent in its black beady foreclosed eyes.
We
need to get something straight even when we were the best of friends I never particularly
cared for you or your brand of special K politics.
Drip
drip drip.
Dap
dap dap.
A
little dab will do you.
A
lot of dab will drive you right over the edge of whatever passes for madness in
these elongated days and dehydrated nights.
The
cult of personality in your mind challenges you to a duel you don’t want to
lose.
Poem
is nearly in the rearview.
Lot’s
wife didn’t even know what hit her when she turned into a pillar of sodium
chloride.
You
will make due when this poem is through with you and maybe you’ll even get back
on the elephant and ride through the bazaar like a chieftain or professional
tourist.
Sometimes
we need to change our point of view like we change the oil in our automobile every
three months, or 3,000 miles.
Go
figure.
Charles Cicirella
1/7/17
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