Wednesday, July 08, 2020

Poop Epiphany

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

No comments: