Saturday, December 16, 2017

Am I Dead?

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

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