I
want to lasso the moon and give it to you on a gold platter.
There’s
often too much happening for people to s-l-o-w down and respect the atomic
mushroom cloud that has become their lives.
It’s
one excuse after another and I wish when someone was mad at me they’d come
clean and stop pitying me like Judy Garland in Judgment at Nuremberg.
I’m
a torch poet which is vastly different than a torch singer. I don’t inject
anything into my body because needles have always been a point of contention
for me.
The
point is I desire to view you when you’re exiting the bath and I’m losing my
mind in the folds of your inked skin.
Sometimes
I feel like you’re my only cheerleader left as my poetry goes the way of the
dinosaurs and an asteroid shows us exactly who is boss.
I
believe we were created at the time of the Big Bang when all the kids were
doing the twist and rainstorms in our minds left us devoid of purpose or
passion.
We
hung on for a millennium or two because we knew lost souls like us would someday come
back into vogue.
I
need to kiss your Scottish mouth with everything I got before it gets too late
and dawn mocks us for coming unprepared.
Doug is drinking more and more water which makes me feel so helpless and
unstitched in these days of grape juice not from concentrate and prickly
flowers you’re better off smelling with your eyes.
I
love you and when I say that think of it as three words included in your
lunchbox that becomes a sanctuary in that mailroom environment.
It’s
one excuse after the next and before you know it all the black and white movies
in existence cannot bring us back from the dead. The black hole had so much
more color than I ever could have imagined as we held hands and the void drank us into
infinity.
Charles Cicirella
6/23/20
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