http://charlespoet.podomatic.com/entry/2015-03-08T13_56_53-07_00
Let’s make music like crickets.
I’m running out of good ideas.
The day the music died more
than just music breathed its last
breath.
We resemble our least favorable selves
when our backs are up against the wall.
She told me things about myself I could
hardly believe were true.
I’m running on empty and no top off
is going to save me.
We will not even come close to
breaking even if we insist on gambling
with our doppelgangers.
I sat next to her at a poetry reading
and everything sort of made sense
for the first time in decades.
The way I write is simple. I wait for the
words to advance and if they don’t I do
my best to stall before spilling the bloody
truth on the white shag rug. Believe what
you must. I still believe I am Christ the
Redeemer even though martyr complexes
are rarely worth the marble they are
chiseled from.
Put yourself in a compartment you will be
comfortable in for at least a millennium or
more. The help we seek quite often does
not come when expected so it’s best to be
cozy in one’s self-imposed isolation.
As we drove through the streets of Erie I
kept wondering why the plug hadn’t been
pulled years before.
Charles Cicirella
3/8/15
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