Want
to kiss your secret mouth.
In
some back alley or dark theatre on the outskirts of town.
There’s
a crime noir sensibility attached to everything you hide in plain sight and I
won’t lie I am attracted to that which you swear does not exist.
I
was in San Francisco. Walked by a coffee shop as Billie Holiday’s voice blew
out the front door like bullets from a blue gun. I entered and knew I was
finally back home.
Richard
Brautigan wrote about women wearing clothes better than any writer beat or
otherwise. His humanity bled into the page, leaving no prisoners or dry eyes in
the internment camp.
And
you break through everything with your safe cracking insights and the way your
silence envelops every room in shadows of moonlight and skepticism.
Wanted
to hold you and I wanted to let you go. In part because we don’t even know each
other and also because physical contact and me haven’t seen eye to eye in many
years.
I
imagine you the bull in the China shop and I the China because I’ve always had
more in common with fragile flowers than the snorting beasts not even Picasso
or Hemingway could possibly break.
Perhaps
I’m just another gilded lily and it’s going to take a Scottish lass such as
yourself to wake me up and put me back on the railroad tracks.
Charles Cicirella
12/27/16
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