(For Mikal)
His
writing takes me hostage.
Wonder
what he really thinks of Norman Mailer.
I
imagine him hunched over the keys like Mitchum in Out of the Past when nothing was sacred and black and white was the
color of all of our ancient lives.
We’re
all just ghosts hitchhiking on a highway of blood diamonds toward either
Graceland or the gallows.
The
way he writes about vinyl records like past lovers he still cannot get a proper
grasp of leaves me in stitches on this unrepentant killing floor.
If
he were a country and western song I wonder which one he’d be. As tortured
writers go I cannot wait till he breaks from his Houdini chains and sets us all
free.
He and his wife Elaine are really the only thing that makes FB worth checking because they invite you into their lives while holding no punches as they say Geronimo.
I
am sick and tired of the glossy sheen of another actress’s selfie or the bad
jokes unclever comedians crack at the expense of no one, but their own pathetic
selves.
Our
world is quite literally in a tangle as we fight against a new normal of alt.
facts and Jim Crow diplomacy.
His
writing born in a darkened room out of desperation and clemency for a sense of
decency doing no one any good.
When
revisiting with a Tambourine Man he uncovers self-evident truths best left
locked away in a vaudevillian’s steamer trunk.
I
imagine his favorite steed tied up to a post out front as he saunters into the
coffee shop like a space-cowboy-freedom-fighter whose best days are still right
there in front of him.
Charles Cicirella
2/10/2017
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