Saturday, November 28, 2015

Bottom of the Well

I don’t know how we got here, but here we are all the same.
It’s chilly and dark and all hope has been vanquished.
Poetry is not a whore or a manservant. It’s another tool, another form of expression like insurance fraud but far more lucrative.
Don’t pretend you don’t know what I’m taking about because I know you speak the language of love and hate and all of the other squishy emotions existing between the South and North Poles.

I remember when we met in that diner on the outskirts of the city. I wanted to order chocolate cake, but you said it wasn’t American so I ordered apple pie ala mode instead and choked it down like all good Christians choke on Jesus’s communion wafer.
I’m not intending to be blasphemous that’s just how it comes out when there’s a gun to my head and terrorism has become the new patriotism.
I’ll never forget when we fell down the rabbit hole, but because your name was Alice you were treated differently as the Queen of Hearts repeated over and over again "Off with their heads!" as I did nothing more than simply ask for a glass of H2O.
I’ll never forget staring death in the hollows of its erroneous face and how emotionless and unforgiving I felt as I went mad from unsuccessfully trying to feed my head.

I don’t know what it is about the bottom of this well, but something’s telling me I’ve been here before.
The déjà vu washes over me like reruns of unaired Honeymooners episodes as you sit there in the corner of the room like some ventriloquist’s dummy that’s been left in the desert for forty days and forty nights.
There’s something to be said for changing the conversation by simply changing the color of one’s stripes, but for some of us it’s not that easy or advisable when the terms dictated are the very same principles you abandoned so long ago.

Charles Cicirella

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