That’s
where the magic happens
In
the bathroom, crouching like a hidden dragon
I
did something beyond idiotic, but I found my way back to the truth once I
stopped clinching and let the crap come out like the National Guard doing their
duty by protecting my stupidity
Nichole
gets me and
I get Nichole because neither one of us is afraid to speak our truth or let our freak
flags fly, no matter the cost nor the fear ratcheted up when a smartphone video
is taken out of context
It’s
always in the bathroom where I find myself best equipped to gather my thoughts
and lay pipe like Scrabble tiles on a board made from porcelain and languished solemnity
On
the phone with my friend Rusty and we started talking about Oliver Stone and
the film JFK and then somehow we got
on the subject of the jazz vocalist Jimmy Scott and Rusty informed me he’s
buried right around the corner at Knollwood Cemetery
The
bathroom is clearly the Godhead to which I best not stray too far afield
because it’s this path that keeps me inline with the very reason I was created
I
discovered my true passion at fourteen years old and Dylan, Morrison and King
all had something to do with it as creativity became the lifeblood pumping
through my veins like the milk-blood in a junkies’ punctured sunrise
I’m
now imagining Nichole in her little sun dress grinding on Ry’s prodigal grin
because we all best get our kicks before we’re put out to pasture.
Charles Cicirella
7/7/20
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