I want to write about a tree.
Not any tree.
This is a particular tree.
I want to remove the gloves and say how I really feel.
Somehow capture when I was a kid on a Saturday afternoon and wanted to hang out with my dad, but my dad never seemed to have any time for me.
There’s dust, oil and gunpowder on these keys, but that is only because of all the killing these poems have a tendency of doing when the voices in my head get their way.
I want to write about a tree.
A tree whose war paint is not necessary because I know underneath it their inner child is naked and dancing in the sun.
This is a particular tree whose poetic branches exist in the past, present and future simultaneously.
Charles Cicirella
8/19/15
Not any tree.
This is a particular tree.
I want to remove the gloves and say how I really feel.
Somehow capture when I was a kid on a Saturday afternoon and wanted to hang out with my dad, but my dad never seemed to have any time for me.
There’s dust, oil and gunpowder on these keys, but that is only because of all the killing these poems have a tendency of doing when the voices in my head get their way.
I want to write about a tree.
A tree whose war paint is not necessary because I know underneath it their inner child is naked and dancing in the sun.
This is a particular tree whose poetic branches exist in the past, present and future simultaneously.
Charles Cicirella
8/19/15
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