I
know I shouldn’t have to ask, but sometimes that which is obvious eludes me
like a hard spanking or soft kiss.
The
poetry stuffed inside my gut like Little Debbie Snack Cakes and sometimes it
makes sense while most of the time I’m left hanging by the most tenuous of
threads.
It’s
not a sign of death, but oftentimes avoiding your deepest, darkest feelings will
only leave you in limbo or Passaic, New Jersey.
I’m
calling out to you like a harpy.
Like
a Bettie Page pin-up who allowed the leopard to lick her pussy because she
liked how the leopard changed its spots for the holidays.
I’m
calling out to you from underneath the coffee table because I’m afraid to face
all the burgeoning questions resting atop another unread copy of Vanity Fair or
within the folds of your James Brown “Mother Popcorn” skin.
The
Democrats have finally proven beyond the shadow of any doubt just how spineless
they are as the Mad Hatter sits in the White House eating his curds and whey, shitting
out more self-congratulatory tweets and poisoning America with an unabashed ignorance
we’ve not seen in a century or more on Pennsylvania Avenue.
Let’s
go the way of the Dreamers who if congress have their way will be deported
before you can blink an eye or flick a booger off your pointed and pugnacious
finger.
I
wanted to stay inside where it was warm, but I knew if I didn’t go out into the
streets and start to march I’d find myself questioning why I still even exist
in this land of defamation and ridicule.
Are
we already dead?
Are
we quite sure we’ll have the upper hand when push comes to shove and shove
decides to sneak across the border and become Canadian?
You
want the biggest slice of the pie? Okay fine, but just keep in mind the karmic
chickens that will eventually come home to roost and all the repercussions that
will whip you like a slave in orbit once a not so silent minority has their
final say.
Charles Cicirella
12/16/17
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