Monday, June 01, 2015


I wonder if she was tempted in the least little bit to call after I gave her my cell number?
We could talk about nothing and just listen to the other one breathe.
We could talk about everything including the love like some raven at our window with a broken wing.

I stole part of that last line, but I’m sure he’ll understand and not be too miffed with my poetic theft.
Repurposing is all the rage in these days of bird flu and designer ice-cream that will kill you if you give it just half a chance.
It’s a slippery slope believing in your heart of hearts that you’re an artist when in your everyday life you refuse to allow anything to take seed and grow like the tallest tree or shortest poet.

I wonder where she came out of all of a sudden.
I swear she appeared when my back was turned and like an orphan with his gun I stood there crying like a fire in the sun.
I’ve done it again. Repurposed one of the traveling troubadour’s great lines. Of course who knows where he may have picked it up at because isn’t creating just like a game of Pick-up Sticks? The sticks in this case are red hot pokers and we’re all looking to leave our brand on someone else’s unsuspecting cattle.

I was at a loss for words then I cleared my throat and accepted a s'more from a man who never fails to make me smile and feel good about myself.
I thought the s’more would be sickening sweet but because he used bittersweet chocolate I found myself wanting another but too shy to ask for a second one.
I am reading her poem as I hold my breath and discover myself feeling like Henry Limpet with all his daydreams of being a fish locked in so tightly into my craven heart.
We must tear ourselves down to the very foundation before we can rebuild in the image of something completely profane or sacred depending on both our outlook on things and the Kool-Aid we’ve been drinking.

I’ve noticed how closely she holds her cards to her chest. Something I can thoroughly relate to because this world can’t stand long and while we’re hanging around it’s best we’re comfortable with those we choose to hang out with and get to know intimately or otherwise.
She just told me she loves black licorice which I can completely concur with and has me now thinking about Black Jack chewing gum and how sad it is that such complexity is lost in our flavorless and thread barren modern times.
I wonder if she was tempted in the least little bit to call and how at ease I would be talking to a stranger who is quickly becoming a muse and a friend.

Charles Cicirella

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