Saturday, October 03, 2015

Caterpillar Astronaut

Headphones on.
“Tiger in My Tank.”
I’m restless.
Reservations prod me toward the edge of another Tomorrowland cliff.

You write poetry like its disco and it sickens me to my very core.
Squeeze the words out of your brain-tube and paint as thick as Vincent did when the muse was going down on him, but refused to let him finish.
I’m catatonic.
Patron saints like Walt Disney animals exist all around me speaking in their squeaky voices trying to get me to do things that wouldn’t be good for anyone.

I say let them build the Mosque next to the DQ / Orange Julius, next to the Elks Lodge, next to the Temple behind the car wash.
You’d think people who were religious would be the most tolerant when exactly the opposite proves to be the case.
Except for the temper tantrum Christ had over the money changers when he cleansed the Temple he appears to have been all about love and mercy and yet too many zealots are killing in his esteemed name.
I want to go the distance, but before I pledge allegiance to another flag draped in blood I want you to reassure me the Children’s Crusades are a thing of the past and you will not be aborting another fetus merely for sport.

Headphones on.
The Albino is making my ears bleed.
I’m sonorous and afraid you’re much too shallow for my erroneous tastes.
I will never forget that day at the roller skating rink when I thought it would be funny to hide Brenda Marcus’s wallet and all hell broke loose when it actually came up missing.

We’re all caterpillar astronauts in search of tang and freeze dried ice-cream to keep us happy and somewhat pacified.
He was a demon, but not a bad demon. In fact when it came to his demon exploits he only did good like so many civil rights leaders and Hells Angels profess doing.
Now grab hold of my horns because I am going to take you for the ride of your multifaceted lives and when we’re through running through the streets of Pamplona I promise to return you back to your sedentary and solitary life of Springsteen concerts and kale salads.
I’m just another mover and shaker stuck in the suburbs who has no one to blame but himself. And when you are through wringing out another filthy white or blue collar come join me on the upper deck before this Titanic ship starts to sink and the band begins to play “Autumn.”

Charles Cicirella

No comments: