Thursday, January 24, 2019


I climbed inside her artificial space
Opened my lunch pail
Replayed episodes of The Andy Griffith Show in my episodic skull bank

First time she painted in front of me she wore nothing, but the Kool-Aid she’d been drinking before I wasted her afternoon with my late-night shenanigans
Before dipping my eye-periscopes into her snuff-film trails of snail sludge and Scott Baio DNA I called my Rabbi to perform last rites
I knew I was over my head and wished to return to the cockroach infested room I was renting on Ninth Avenue with the Leonard Cohen records pushed way back in the gay closet

Julia unbuttoned my prerequisites and scolded me for not looking her in the third eye when serving her asparagus in some kind of cream sauce
I allowed her to have her way with me because it had been decades since anyone had seen me in my birthday suit and I figured I was due for a happy ending
She sized up the canvas and swallowed it in one decisive bite. I felt like a box of chocolates that had all of its cream and caramel sucked out of it

Her rock-wall- psyche was one national monument I could not face in my present condition of plusses waxed and minuses whacked
I knew she wanted desperately to end it so I ordered takeout from that Thai place around the corner and exposed my pink hairy belly for the final demoralizing time
She’s the Opie to my Aunt Bee and I’ll never forget the first time we spent time in the same cell and how she never complained not even when the remote had been misplaced and no one could watch their favorite programs

Charles Cicirella

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