Gonna
stop writing and just make toast for a living
Burnt
toast, cinnamon toast, all kinds of toast
I
am afraid the writing is slipping away or at the very least my self- confidence
has gone on holiday and scary movies no longer scare me like they once did
I
like your ass
Imagine
you holding onto the paintbrush like a sexy bird that gets color like they get
despair and the deforestation of an artist’s bankrupted soul
Tired
of waiting for hope and the fear it elicits like Siamese Twins hell-bent on
finding a robe that fits them like sunshine fills a child’s cereal bowl
Want
to make love to you on a mountain of newspapers because I still believe in newsprint
and how it gets on your fingers like the ashes of our misbegotten, but never
forgotten Ancestry ancestors
King
of the hill was always too lofty a goal for my small mind so I settled instead
for blowing up the world with my words and when that failed I took a knee and
prayed the next wedgie I received was from Christ Almighty
The
painted wreckage impressed neither one of us so we called it a day and committed
suicide by binge watching Amazon Prime on phones the size of our most
depressing of outsourced daydreams
I
love your ass
Wish
you’d paint a portrait of my remedial nightmares and the short bus I took when
trying to get to you
Desire
to be spread before you like a bald eagle whose best laid plans often go awry
because the mice they hunt won’t give them the time of day
Charles Cicirella
12/16/18
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