I
put down the pipe, pick up the Bible and put it in a drawer.
It’s
the way it has to be because for God and me to be friends there must be no
sub-text existing between us.
Words
pour through me like a broken bottle or waterboarded detainee and I wish I
could share these feelings with a special someone, but this special someone has
checked out a long time ago.
Creativity
pushes me toward the sun like a pair of rickety roller skates or a choker on a disobedient
Doberman.
The
first poem I wrote was about the moon, every poem since has been about pizza in one form or another.
I
wish to be locked in a one room country shack with the voice of a generation
and a human even more irascible than myself.
I
swear we would take to one another like anchovies to olive oil or a teacher to
chalk if only a transom window was open long enough for us both to squeeze
through to the other side of morning.
I
attempted standing the test of time until I became tired and sat down on Humpty
Dumpty’s watch.
Need
to fill the dishwasher, turn it on and empty it into oblivion and beyond.
Now
I’m thinking about when I was a kid and cutting the grass and how pointless an
act of contrition that was.
The
pipe is staring up at me with its aluminum foil muzzle tempting me to suck
myself into unconsciousness.
I
don’t like to smoke until 4:20 because I am a stickler for an OCD plan of disassembly.
Let’s
bury the axe in our foreheads and forgive and forget the times we aren’t
getting along and passive aggression is our only means to an end.
Charles Cicirella
6/26/19 
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