Saturday, April 14, 2018


Sometimes we fight and argue and that’s how I know we’re really friends because we always come back stronger than we were before.
We’ve known each other for well over fifteen years and I still respect and cherish her as much as I did the very first time we met in that coffeehouse on 5th. Ave.
She bleeds poisoned cupcake poetry with sequined words and pageantries of distorted horn blasts. She doesn’t waste her time with political maneuvering because she knows and feels what’s important and acts on it with every mindful and unmindful step she takes.

Our poetry is vastly different as is our take on most everything, but with those two very dissimilar viewpoints we’ve retaken a photograph of poetic lands yet unchartered or visited by the likes of our terrestrial selves.
Something is burning and I believe it’s the engines of forethought held captive in our brains like molten lava cupcakes or all beef hotdogs smoldering over a remedial campfire of accidental brilliance.
My hands were dirty until she forced them beneath the faucet and washed them clean of dispersion and aspirations of self-inflicted vertigo. I in turn did the same for her by growling litanies of undiminished otherness into her ears of trance and fury.

It’s a lost cause attempting make the world over in our own images because the world has its own plans having little to do with our own blown out birthday candle wishes.
Sometimes she gets me wrong and sometimes I get her right and together what we’re left with is worth more than all the empty words piling up in the parking lots of our unscripted, stagecoach minds.
Poetry is life not only proof of life and if you’re using it to become more popular or to advance your own bullshit cause well then you’re missing the point. Juliet knows this as she leaves corrupted hellcats in her wake and emerges from the incurable flames toasty and totally radicalized on her own terms and frosted terminology.

Charles Cicirella

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