Sunday, March 12, 2017

Eighteenth Poem (I could give a shit less what he’s building in there)

Put down your hammers, nails and industrial piping
Pull out all the stops, the pregnant pauses adding to the suspense and exasperating the less patient in the audience.
I’m not here to hold your hand or tell you everything is going to be alright. In fact I know next to nothing when it comes to soothing the aggrieved or tamping down the fires of shock and outright disbelief.

We celebrate crucifixions like they’re going out of style.
We clamor around a martyrs’ feet like they’re the ones taking all the body blows when truth be told we’re all crying in this or that wilderness or suburban hellhole.
I thought he had all of his ducks in a row. Or that at the very least his cutting wit and well intentioned and funny as hell observations would get him through.

I couldn’t have been more wrong.
I couldn’t have read the situation more incapably and though I’m hardly to blame I still feel the fear of pitchforks raised when another monster is driven from the town square.
Should I have hung onto him at that last Bob show and never let him go?
Would that have saved him from buying a gun and taking his life in that parked car like in a Beatles song?

It’s not a question of where we went right or wrong. Leave that to the sportscasters and pundits to masturbate over when the alt. facts support nothing but another defiled king and his court of sycophants and white supremacists.
I cannot even think about what Jim would have made of what’s now going on. It hurts too much to think of his wry smile and that twinkle in his Peter Pan eyes.
Sometimes late at night I like to think I was his Tinkerbelle and that with a little magic fairy dust sprinkled into his beer I could have saved him from the fate every one of us will suffer, some with bullets others from the unforgiving hands of time.

Charles Cicirella

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