Standing
the test of time is for pussies
I’m
sorry for uttering the P-word
There’s
no excuse for that under any circumstances
I
smell oatmeal
Steel-cut
and priming to be our savior
I’ve
always favored Aunt Jemima over Uncle Ben, call me a feminist
I
move from one poem to the next like a marauder whose best marauding days are
behind them
Expected
shelf-life is for wimps
I’m
sorry for uttering the W-word
It’s
inexcusable in these torrid times of weaponized hatred
I
turned my head and saw you, eyes closed, deep in the poetry-jazz wafting around
us like cherubs in assless chaps puffing on refer cigarettes
You’re
so cool I cannot help but think of the Fonz before he jumped that shark and
started to push reverse mortgages on an unsuspecting public
Why
can’t we as a species be happy with what we got and not be so greedy and full
of black ink?
Let’s
duck out back like two guys who were smart enough not to tangle themselves up
in some spiritless movement
I
like hearing you read and enjoy reading when you’re in attendance because I
know that at least one person is listening with their chakras wide open
We
were riding on a tandem bicycle, can’t recall who was in front and who was
doing all of the work in the back, but the one thing I do remember is how easy
you are to talk to no matter the mountains standing tall before us or the open
expanse we float through like weightless chimpanzees
Charles Cicirella
11/12/19
