Saturday, December 31, 2016

One Room Country Shack

You are old.
I am young and obviously don’t know anything.
Huh? What? Look I get age equals experience, but it also appears that age equals intolerance and a level of condescension not equaled since an old guard pulled out their blue blood peckers and took a piss all over a new guard that they believed was threatening their cozy position of unchecked power and unparalleled incompetence.

I have an asshole. You have an asshole.
We all buy toilet paper either in bulk or one roll at a time so when I gripe maybe it’s just one asshole’s opinion and you should wipe that indifferent grin off your face of shit and shinola.
I’m used to being held up in the wilderness crying wolf to a bunch of Peter Pans who want nothing to do with my Tinkerbelle stylings and fairy dust innuendos.

Don’t answer the phone when a dispirited muse is calling because then perhaps you’d actually have to get up, stand up and fight for something more than just another selfie on FB or featured reading in one more twilight town where the mayor hands you the key to the city while writing down your license plate number.
Sometimes I like to believe we’re all ex-cons serving time in a universal mind while others times I know solitary confinement would be the death of me and that I already spend far too much time by myself, twiddling my thumbs and making hay out of the ether.

I want to meet you outside of your comfort zone.
Hole up with you in a one room country shack in this or that Bubblicious homeland of wounded bald eagles and Count Chocula’s that go bump in the verboten night.
Let’s write our brains out and then go get a slice of apple pie with a chunk of cheddar cheese on top because we’re nothing if not American in our faded denim and denizens of misappropriated minstrel hope.
Everybody lies that is what I’ve come to understand as cynicism rains down from a puckered up red lipstick sky and a New Year wraps around us like a death shroud.

Charles Cicirella

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