Thursday, May 26, 2016

The hits just keep coming (For D.B.)

I’m not going to say his name
This isn’t Harry Potter
Still I refuse to spill the beans

You want hard luck
Read some John Fante
I was never all that impressed, but that hardly means anything because I’m pretty damn sure Bukowski was onto something when he waxed poetic about this relic of dust and brick

It doesn’t matter
I’ll take more allergy medicine
And I will feel better for another eight hours

The hits just keep coming
Think of me as an abused poet who needs to go to a poet shelter and beat this addiction to words and the silence quaking between the consonants and vowels
Vanya White and Pat Sajak will come and give some life affirming presentation about how they have no problem being just another sellout on the puzzle board of life

Let’s not bother with names
Or professions
Or why we find ourselves wishing we were better gamblers and didn’t believe so resolutely in doing our abandoned and forsaken work

I was a “King Bee” before I gave up the sweet taste of honey for more mundane and less inspired tasks
Now I play at a Holiday Inn in my mind on the weekends and keep things interesting by playing Russian roulette like Johnny Ace did before one auspicious bullet slowed him down for ever after
And never forget I loved you when you were nothing and will continue to love you when you’re trace energy because there is nothing like the supernatural to keep one guessing and on their toes

Charles Cicirella

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