Thursday, March 10, 2016


I want to communicate without language.
Only painted music stands between us and the grave.
We’re muses subsisting between the silence and the Crucifixion.

I was lackadaisical.
Bereft of luster and in need of reshaping an unsharpened intellect.
You did everything in your power to recreate and redesign my failing chassis.

I wasn’t born yesterday.
I was born forty six yesterday’s ago and still my conception of time is short-sighted.
You’re a star teetering on the tongue of a God refuting worship and defying limits.

There is a Monolith.
Revered in stillness and resurrected like an aboriginal savior.
Do you remember when sign language dripped from our fingers like cow’s milk?

We must learn to communicate with textures and tectonic shifts.
It was the Earth moving between us when first making contact.
We’re the only thing in this indecipherable world of sleeping robots that’s conscious of death.

Charles Cicirella

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