This
could be the last poem I write.
I
have a headache and I’m worried it might be a brain tumor.
Think
Woody Allen and remember hypochondriacs are sometimes right on the money.
I
don’t mean to go dark.
In
fact I’m not even a hypochondriac and only play one occasionally on television.
Still
sometimes the waters part and you must cross over to the other side.
Time
to make a glass of Iced Tea.
Maybe
the sugar will help squelch this aching in my skullbank.
I
cannot remember where I left the key and there’s only so much oxygen left to
breathe.
Fred
Gunn is screaming in my head.
The
machine gun rat tat tat leaves me on the concrete like a corpse or oil stain.
We’re
not here for your amusement motherfucker. Don’t you forget it.
This
could end up being my last will and testament.
The
vinyl has already been accounted for as have the Dylan art books.
My
body of work will survive or it won’t. Nothing I can worry about now.
Charles Cicirella
2/10/17
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