My
President is a sociopath and there’s really not anything more to say about
that.
Listening
to Prine and thinking about you and priming your pump.
I
honestly don’t know what that means, but please know I desire to be Natalie
Wood to your James Dean.
Start
your engines.
Start
whatever passes as an automobile in these steamed and pressed times of fever
pitched ferocity and tuneless caterwauling.
It’s
way past midnight and I wish to drag race with you through your awoke mind and
purring Scottish bodie.
Something
there is about the way you part your lips as you walk to and fro from work is
beguiling, bewitching and bedazzling.
The
ink covering your bodie covers my nightscapes as I brandish a candlestick like
in the board game Clue.
Murder
is never something I’d sign up for and the same goes for public displays of
affection in these saturated times of duress and social distancing.
The
Peter principle has been weaponized as people take to the streets for haircuts
and our civil liberties get sliced to ribbons by a public of wimps and
wannabes.
Turning
over this basket of deplorables is long overdue as we reap a harvest of rotten
vegetables and freezer burned ideals.
It’s
time to call it quits as this social experiment craps out and my love for you
burns in the window like a candle or Viking funeral.
Charles Cicirella
4/21/20 
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