I
cannot channel the words.
I
cannot channel much of anything.
The Little Engine That
Could has
up and went.
The
little Jewish-Sicilian poet is coming up empty.
My
memory is failing as I lie even to myself.
Denial
doesn’t feel as good as I believed it once did.
Erased
the chalkboard of memories and still feel nothing.
After
school detention another deplorable distraction.
Listening
and not retaining much of anything.
Thought
I craved chocolate until it was in my mouth.
Thought
I craved you until I was in your mouth.
Praying
and still not sure either God or dog exist.
The
music washes over me like barbed wire open mouth kisses.
I
know what you’re thinking and it’s not true I’ve never been this desperate
before.
I’m
not French, hell I’m not even sure I’m really Sicilian, let’s stop all this
double talk.
The
voice of God rained down and before I knew it I was on the road heading to
another joint.
Tired
of going through the motions.
Sick
of calling in sick and dry heaving into a porcelain bowl of exhausted dreams.
We
can ramble if you promise the makeup sex will be worth my time and food stamps.
Let’s
escape out back before the police show up and we have to explain where we were
when the shit went down and all these bodies started piling up.
Charles Cicirella
11/21/16
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