The
poetry is right here waiting to be peeled like a grape
I
was catatonic, nonplussed, broken into sections of bitter resentment
You
exploded upon my cosseted scene like a Freedom Rider into the segregated south
I
don’t want to stop believing, but sometimes you have no other choice
In
fact that’s not true and belief must be never ending like Mickey Mouse’s
enthusiasm
She
appeared before me as a hologram and I knelt down and seriously prayed
This
poem is coming out in fits and starts like a murder of crows or the assassination
of a very bad peanut
I
watched him from afar as he painted the burning visions in his wheat field head
She
poured the turpentine onto her thirsty brushes like it was Gatorade and took a
sip
I
want to drink from Kat’s loving cup while wearing a blindfold
There’s
nothing wrong with channeling ghosts as long as the ghosts don’t go postal and
turn you into a haunted house
You
told me you were shy, but nothing could have been further from the truth when
you taught me a new language with your hands and feet bound to my consciousness
Charles Cicirella
4/1/19
No comments:
Post a Comment