Wednesday, July 08, 2020

"Harold and the Purple Crayon"
Mama’s in the kitchen counting while I’m sleeping on the floor because me and the daylight haven’t gotten along since 911.
She comes out of the fog of social media, a place I more often than not avoid like the plague because too many people are idiots.
There’s something about her that has awoken a part of my hibernating self that I swore I’d never bring to the surface again.

We must lower our guards if we ever dare to pass go and collect two hundred dollars
Problem is everyday there’s a million new reasons to get into our hazmat suits, board up the windows and never come out of our dens
Encased in a cozy blanket of “Being and Nothingness” the hurt you’re experiencing cuts through any nausea left dripping from the dagger plunged into your immortal sadness

I’ve always been a poet, a Jew and a Sicilian, even before my parents saw my cousin Lori and planned on having a baby
No one’s quite hearing the tolling bells of Covid-19 perhaps because staring into the abyss of our own mortality is too heavy a lift and threatens to break us into a million pieces
My essence spied your essence from across the internet and before I knew what was happening we were both enlightened by the swift action of God imploring us to never stop believing in miracles.

Charles Cicirella

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