Monday, April 01, 2019

Thank you for seeing me. (For Kat Boyd)

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

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