Wednesday, December 02, 2015

Listening to the Rain (For Mikal)

Light the pipe.
Make the nausea go away.
I don’t believe in Sartre.

This is different than the fog of war.
I’ve lived in the trenches with guttersnipe and The Jabberwock.
My brain is on fire and thinking straight is a luxury I cannot afford.

When I was a child I dreamt of mythical figures.
When I became a man I put away childish things and picked up a quill pen.
When I met the one person who knew my mood simply by the tee-shirt I am wearing I knew I could slow down, take off my hat and stay a while.

Opened the patio door and allowed nature to wash over me like closed captioning from a very nurturing and compassionate God.
When I was six years old someone tried explaining the Golden Rule to me. Even at that early age I understood that the very notion of doing unto others as you’d have them do unto you is ingrained in every molecule of our DNA and no explanation was necessary.
Sometimes I dream I’m hanging out at the White Horse Tavern with Dylan Thomas. Which I’ve always found rather strange seeing how I don’t drink and Mr. Thomas isn’t really my cup of coffee when it comes to the company I keep.

We rounded the bend without excuses or loss of consciousness.
The kind of meddle I’m made of is no one’s Goddamn business.
I like the song “Tin Man” by America. Sometimes when I’m in the coffeeshop I’ll hear it playing over the speakers and before you know it I’m mouthing the words, “Oz never did give nothing to the Tin Man that he didn't, didn't already have.”

Charles Cicirella

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