My
tears taste like cookie dough.
My
fingers smell like a sacrificial lamb gone postal.
My
poetry is covered with dung and amniotic fluid.
I
remember our first meeting and how I thought it would be the first of many.
I
was wrong like I am about so many things, but that goes with the territory when
you’re an artist who sacrifices everything to gain even an inch on the
untreated page.
Football
and poetry have nothing in common even though I believe I’m suffering from a
concussion and nothing can heal me except for your melodious touch and Medicaid.
I
made a vow to an internal life force that I believed to be my higher self.
If
these internal machinations have malfunctioned and I was lying to myself I’ll
do my best to continue with this delusionary outlook and an inner child who
refuses to acknowledge my existence.
For
just a moment let’s turn the tables and pretend that art is as important as
sports and love is as universally accepted as violence. Let’s give into our
most primordial of instincts and write a new social contract with our hearts
and minds instead of with our genitalia and financial statements.
Charles Cicirella
1/4/16
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