Tuesday, January 03, 2017

Fifth Poem


I just stuck my finger up my ass, wiggled it around and then smelled it.
Not sure if I did it to make sure that I’m still alive or if I just like the smell of my ass.
Bad habits are a bitch to break like when I use to scratch my junk and smell my fingers. Years later some asshole on FB reminded me that I use to do this and all I could think was why are some people so quick to kick someone when they’re already down?

This is the fifth poem and I have no agenda or plan of what and when I will next create because creativity must be untethered like a balloon floating in deep space.
I never quite understood Juliet’s fascination with lists, but I understand that is her process and I respect it like I respect all glitter-witches before they’re burned at the stake.
She’s the one who turned me onto the phrase ‘a murder of crows’ and informed me that chocolate sprinkles are in fact called jimmies.

We must loosen the ties that bind if we’re ever going to get off the ground and reacquaint ourselves with the Harriet Tubman that exists inside each and every one of us.
I dream of the Underground Railroad as I sleep on a sleeping bag on the floor of my mother’s condo.
Yes it’s true I’m nearly fifty years old and I still haven’t a clue what I want to be when I grow up.

I just scratched my head and then my Achilles tendon.
Not sure why I did it, but I have this paranoid suspicion bugs are eating me alive.
That may have something to do with my unwillingness to shower more frequently because water and I have never seen eye to eye even though I am a water sign.

Charles Cicirella

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