Friday, October 15, 2021

You can’t wipe your friends on the couch. 

Finger buried up my nose as I try and figure out what I’m doing here.
I remember my grandmother’s crooked index finger and how she would joke about giving people directions and them getting lost.
My memory seems to be slipping and things are getting jumbled that come out of my mouth. Starting to wonder if I also have been built for obsolescence and how much time there is left on my warranty.

The Bonfire of the Vanities has got nothing on you and maybe before it’s too late we can cook s’mores over a Fahrenheit 451 campfire and reminisce about all our many lost horizons.
I was grasping at straws and before I knew it I was at a Red Barn in South Euclid ordering fried chicken knowing my goose would soon be cooked.
Now it’s a Taco Bell and I so badly wish we could go back to the way things were.

I want to strip down to whatever my skivvies are and bask in the Raymond Chandler sun before Robert Mitchum gets home and punishes me for something I didn’t even do.
I’d tell you I’m at a loss for words, but I’ve used that excuse too often the last couple of decades so I best own up to all the serial poetry I’ve been writing before it gets crime noir dark and the lemmings are again driven into the ocean by Walt Disney.
My spitfire poetry is not firing on all cylinders as I rub my cock and pray more than dust comes out this time around.

I was in a rooming house on Ninth Avenue in Columbus when the cockroaches came a-calling. Thankfully the Leonard Cohen vinyl survived the second fire.
Timothy Dewitt and I stood on the roof, drinking cheap vodka, screaming the lyrics to “Where Are You Tonight? (Journey Through Dark Heat)” at the top of our lungs.
That was long before Timothy lost his shit and I decided Columbus was no longer the place for me.

Now I’m back in Cleveland with a new couch and even less wherewithal than I had before.
My moral compass is suffering from ED and there’s little I can do about it, but sharpen the pencil in my mind and pray I can keep up with the stream of consciousness dictation spewing out like a volcano with ADHD.
Ben recently informed me that Jim Murray was dead and that made me so sad I nearly forgot why I was here and got a job.

Just kidding.

Charles Cicirella

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