I’m pretty sure
I’ve written this poem before.
In fact I think
I have written it several times, in different guises with lots of Vaseline
around the blowhole. And let’s not forget the candy you used to entice her out
of a dead marriage.
Some poets
deserve to die many deaths before they’re finally put to bed with milk, cookies
and a dog eared copy of War and Peace lying
next to them like an inflatable sex doll or another excuse to torture
themselves before falling asleep like an exhausted child.
I’m listening
with all of my faculties’ razor sharp and ready to rip into this gaunt,
redolent feast like a poet who knows they’re about to expire so they best get
as much paint out of the tube as they can before the buzzer goes off and Tom
Wilson annoys you for simply doing his job.
I’m listening
because you leave me no other choice as the jackals turn into sidemen right
before your weathered Moby Dick eyes
and even Gregory Peck wouldn’t be able to save you from this destiny you so
doggedly pursued like Jack the Ripper on a tear.
You’re tired,
I’m tired, I bet even those emptying the ashtrays are tired but you still have
a sheaf of papers that must be explored and delivered into a microphone that
has no idea what’s to come and how music and history and personal relationships
and the garment district we’ll never be quite the same again.
I’m writing to
you with no hope of these words actually reaching you because the times most
certainly have changed and the guards at the gate are even keener on keeping
the unwashed masses from your door.
Please
understand I have no hidden agenda nor are my motives very sharp. I just find
myself connecting with everything you’re laying down and it makes me wish we
could go see a movie or hang out in a bookstore or just eat some pie in a
non-descript diner somewhere in America or maybe we could hang out in your
castle watching The Third Man. I bet
your take on Harry Lime, Orson Welles and Graham Greene would shiver my timbers
and leave me in a mess on the stone cold floor as you giggled just like you did
in ’65 when the world was laid out before you like cinéma vérité and you made
it your own because what other choice did you have?
I’m pretty sure
I’ve written these words before, but that’s alright because you get the point
and understand that which is pointless is oftentimes the nightingale’s code as
the world crumbles around your designer Italian boots and you make the most out
of the words and the melodies and the fire and ice breaking down your walls and
leaving you completely spent like a ghost whose ticking time bomb intellect
refuses to back down or find someone less deserving to haunt.
Charles Cicirella
11/11/15
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