I
know you did not mean it as an insult
And
still that’s how I took it
Which
is my problem not yours
Sidney
Maiden blowing hard in my ears
As
I dig deep into my construction paper psyche
Trying
to reach into the unsubtle extinguishing of breath
And
nothing is sacred anymore
As
political correctness becomes a garrote around our necks
Just
another six year old beauty queen dead and no one even batting a false eyelash
Let’s
blow up the world
Let’s
fly into the Twin Towers to show America just how garish our best laid and
misplaced plans have become
More
carnage, more Whoppers and Big Macs served up to the impoverished like a holy
wafer and a Priest’s uncut cock force fed into an altar boy’s soft, apologetic mouth
It’s
all bullshit
Every
ounce of OJ with no pulp no longer holding the super flu or super fly at bay
And
another Presidential election is at our door as we choose between the same
sides of a super predator coin as capitalism wears a white hood and burns a
cross in our collective suburban emerald lawns
This
is not a trifle
In
fact it’s not even a blemish
It’s
just one more left handed compliment paid out to the monkeys locked in that
windowless room writing a new folio of Shakespeare graffiti
Now
we’re near Como, in North Mississippi Hill Country
As
I remember just how good she tasted as we went broke
And
she sucked down one Pall Mall after another
Like
she meant to do herself harm
Charles Cicirella
9/11/16
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