Thursday, March 03, 2016


I don’t write with meaning in mind.
I don’t read with meaning ever escaping and outlasting prisons of time.

I like it when you slap me with your enduring recklessness.
I braved the storm as the snow beat through us like a frozen heartbeat.

You’re not a soldier no matter how many uniforms you wear.
You’re not a lover no matter how many kisses you place on the Buddha’s forehead.

I don’t believe in beliefs and that is why I’ll never be a zealot or a zebra trainer.
I don’t portend to change the world with obvious puns or crossword puzzles dipped in honey and oxblood.

I still can recall the first time we met.
You were fancy and I was a stumblebum and nothing has changed and it never will.

I don’t write with mind in meaning.
I don’t covet the messages in a bottle because I know alcoholism will only leave you helplessly blind and desiring even more moral ambiguity.

She was disingenuous to a fault, but I forgave her trespasses because the way she moaned was like a cavalcade of whispering fanatics.
And when we made love I felt completely free for the first time in my Purina Puppy Chow life.

Charles Cicirella

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