I
am sleeping
I
am writing this poem
I
am naked
I
am clothed in civil disobedience
I
want to fuck you with my words while we’re both wearing a crown of thorns
I
know my Christ complex is getting the best of me and I honestly don’t know what
to do about that
Perhaps
it’s because I’m a lapsed Jew or because I enjoy being sodomized by religious doctrine
I
suggested going out behind the A&P and it looked like she was considering
it before saying no and running for the gentrified hills
It’s
always been the same when I’m introduced at an open reading; I approach the
stage like a boxer whose shorts are on inside out
The
podium is not my friend as I attempt using it as a crutch and it starts to
creak, making it perfectly clear even it’s not in my corner
I
don’t believe the world is out to get me exactly, it’s more like I wish the
world were out to get me then all this complaining wouldn’t be so damn annoying
I
only have myself to blame for the trouble that follows me around like a pug
underfoot or a Buddhist monk who has given up on waiting and decides to just
get on the next bus
My
Ghost World could beat up your Ghost World, but what would be the point
when Steve Buscemi is no longer popular and no one now even knows who Thora
Birch is
Let’s
stop all of this monkeying around and blow dog whistles only when we’re
absolutely convinced we want to attract trash and get another lowlife elected
President
I
cannot explain it, but Kat gets my juices flowing and has me writing like I was
twenty six again
Maybe
that’s because I need to know someone is listening as my fingers search the
keys and her mind for an answer that’s not convoluted or full of antifreeze
I
also believe it has everything to do with her appreciating my gestures and
knowing I am nothing more than an unconditional poet who believes in doing the work
and having said work set me free
I
am resisting
I
am crashing my car through David Bowie’s “China Girl”
I
am redundant
I
am clothed in the redundancy of abject cynicism
Charles Cicirella
9/7/18
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