Rich
Stadler sucks.
Lenny
and Timmy are in the corner shooting up over the collective gains of their
universal mothers.
Rusty
always tells it like it is.
Broken
promises cannot be repaired when tears remain unwept and the dust of age
settles in like cold oatmeal.
Hanging
out in his big ass studio with our big ass ideas.
It
all comes back to me in a flood of hand wringing distress.
I
believed I was fearless until you appeared in my out of focus camera lens with
your femme fatale girlfriend.
Suicide
has cut us into new forms that no longer praise Jesus because what difference
would it make when madness chips away at our plaster psyches like a sculptor
whose hands shake from Parkinson’s.
Too
many of us are frozen out from the scales of blind justice for the sole reason
a jury of our peers is next to impossible to discover in a suburban landscape
of stoic whore mongers and unfunny clowns.
Our
phone calls remind me of another time when the day to day seemed easier to
grasp and less obnoxious to maneuver through.
When
Rich mentioned how I used to scratch my nuts and smell my fingers I knew he was
a pathological piece of dispassionate shit that deserved to rot in his own
passive aggressive tendencies toward community theater mediocrity.
Living
in an artist colony is overrated when there are no creative sparks to speak of
and the Milo Coffeehouse was the only honest to God sanctuary in a den of conniving
Christian fundamentalists.
Charles Cicirella
12/22/18
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