Voice
indescribable
Disguised
in a hail of bullets and oily revolutions
Streams
of consciousness placed on the auction block
Sat
in that office
Listened
to fifteen seconds
Was
reborn and cast out like a vagabond or miscreant
Bootleg
Series get no more intimate or uncomfortable
A
madman standing naked at the canvas expecting rain and torrents of disbelief
He
knew his time was up and he’d best hunker down before his muse gave up on him
too
We
stand alone at the gates of healing and transformative genius
Praying
God or some other all-knowing entity has our back
There’s
nothing left to do, but attend Norman’s painting classes and pray the naked
city doesn’t spit him out like millions before him
His
strumming proves just how effective a ghost can haunt the guitar when his life
is on the line and there are no more bands left to do his unapologetic bidding
Absolved
in the blood of a holy spirit whose father sold appliances and kept his family sheltered
from the storm
Iron
ore mining only gets you so far when your deposits of knowledge need a good
talking to and your twin, that enemy within has gone on a holiday from a
resurrection of selflessness
Voice
breaks down and pulls out all the stops
As
that bird on a wire gets acquainted with twilight and the emergence of another
new morning
No
one has ever been more conscious when laying down the blood on the yellow
railroad tracks
Charles Cicirella
10/18/18 
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