Monday, January 31, 2022

Stand Back I Don’t Know How Big This Thing Gets (For Provost, Sagan, Kesey and La Charity)

Our consciousness is not the problem.
Only when we’re unconscious do problems arise.
I’ve been writing stream of consciousness since the moon turned me from a werewolf back into a human.

Listening to Dylan because oftentimes he’s the only thing that cuts through the din.
Fourteen years old and my best friend had four legs. Dominic, Mark and Bobby wanted nothing to do with me.
Highway 61 Revisited came to me like a thief in the night and replaced my nightmares with dreams of alchemy and blood.

When Brautigan wrote about that hamburger, bullets and American dust I knew exactly where he had been and where he was going.
He gutted me like no fisherman ever has as Moby Dick calls out to me like a lost refrain from your favorite hymn.

Before you know it perhaps I’ll write my Requiem and then I’ll move to Big Sur and wait for California to fall into the ocean, it won’t be long now.
Our worst devils seems to be the only thing we’re listening to as scientific voices are drummed out by demigods and paper tigers.
Somethings you just cannot make up as parents sacrifice their children and raping and pillaging becomes a national pastime.

The writing on the walls has been scrawled over with snot and blood and even some semen to keep it fluid.
The drunken, football hoards are coming for us with their non-vaxxed status and a sense of entitlement that’s sickening to witness.
Why can’t we for once do the right thing instead of throwing around words like freedom and patriotism like they actually mean something? Fuck anybody who doesn’t believe in God and fuck everybody too stupid to do the right thing.

Charles Cicirella

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