Wednesday, September 05, 2018

Stacks of Books and Lightning Rods (For Kat and Jason)

The reason you’re not recognized is because you are too good for their Yosemite Sam “What in Tarnation” brain stems
And I want to lay with her like two hibernating bears dreaming of honey and when Trump is no longer President
Pick up the phone its Jesus calling. He wants to know what you want on your afterlife pizza and if anchovies wet your whistle or stop up your works

I loved you from afar and when I got closer my crush grew even more substantial
Murderers and poets must possess the ability to know when to stop killing and when carving isn’t going to make any difference whatsoever
I’ve never played a surgeon on television and I don’t want to because I hear the overhead is deadly and driving a Mercedes isn’t what it’s cracked up to be

Klute receives my poetry in a manila envelope and checks it for mistakes and righteous indignation
His earnestness made me a fan right off the bat and his produce shape keeps me rooting for the inner pear inside all of us
The concert was maroon and her campfire was a liability, but when it comes to general admission all bets are off

I know she has a significant other and that this poetry isn’t going anywhere and still I daydream of her on top as we watch some foreign film with the subtitles turned off
She turns me on like a game of Hungry Hungry Hippos that goes right on refilling itself even after my pain threshold has been reduced to rubble
I rid myself of my five o’clock shadow when she told me drag queens were no longer her thing and that manly men are what now made her as wet as Old Faithful

I’m just about to call it quits because my channeling of Ben Franklin isn’t going as planned
My poetry is not a Farmer’s Almanac that can be used as a guide to plant your crops
Even my best pickup lines do next to nothing to impress potential prey and that goes double for the poems that spill from me like water

Charles Cicirella

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