Saturday, January 07, 2017

Sixteenth Poem (Drip Drip Drip)

Poem is on the precipice.
The last ladder rung.
Ready to jump.
You need the poem.
The poem does not need you.

Are you a wolf or a lamb?
It may not matter to you, but it does to Charles Darwin.
Survival of the fittest or survival of the one whose foul words get bleeped out faster on network television.
Go ahead and swear like a sailor or an English matron whose dildo never quite fit properly.
I am going to tell you something then I’m not going to say it again.

Poem is circling the drain.
The last vestiges of hope when a child becomes an adult and forgets about the blood and the passion of an awkward adolescence.
You want reality TV? Why when real life is happening all around you? Take a bite out of the apple and never look the serpent in its black beady foreclosed eyes.
We need to get something straight even when we were the best of friends I never particularly cared for you or your brand of special K politics.

Drip drip drip.
Dap dap dap.
A little dab will do you.
A lot of dab will drive you right over the edge of whatever passes for madness in these elongated days and dehydrated nights.
The cult of personality in your mind challenges you to a duel you don’t want to lose.

Poem is nearly in the rearview.
Lot’s wife didn’t even know what hit her when she turned into a pillar of sodium chloride.
You will make due when this poem is through with you and maybe you’ll even get back on the elephant and ride through the bazaar like a chieftain or professional tourist.
Sometimes we need to change our point of view like we change the oil in our automobile every three months, or 3,000 miles.
Go figure.

Charles Cicirella

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