Sunday, February 10, 2019


they’re just poems, not reasons
reasonable doubt plagues us like a lost cause
misfiring engines, the pop pop of a gunshot/ backfire, everybody ducks

broken bottles cracked over broken heads, broken words shooting blanks into blank cadavers, hurricanes, wait where is this going, I got my thumb in the wind
the hitchhiker’s blank stare a postmortem on the selfishness of the bland, bigoted status quo

drooling in their autumn sweaters, yellow leaves dying at their feet
big feet the size of The Colossus of Rhodes and when I’m done being exhausted I promise to beat you over the kaleidoscope-head for reminding me I’m only human

wrapped in stardust, petulant and self-important as fuck.
A star artist that knew it was all bullshit and his shit smelled as rank as everyone else’s
union suit, the stains were unbearable, but I guess things happen that way

i’m rotting from the inside out, we’re all rotting from the inside out, watch me rot
like a bologna sandwich jesus kept in the crypt before he rolled his cloud away
he played the guitar like a house may land on him, at any second, if only he’d stop pacing back and forth like an expectant flower giving birth to an old, evil curmudgeon

in a drool bib with a ring on his finger the size of the other side of ohio where they still teach the crucifixion as a bed time story to failing future capitalists
they are just songs or chamber music for the inflexible, those incapable of bending even when the golden rule is shoved up their stinky assholes and sunshine has taken a holiday

there are no sick days here, we drag ourselves green, ragged waiting on our pulse to stop
queen jane sits on her tuffet abandoning all hope and aspiring to be all she can never possibly be
which with her imagination may only be a needle in the camels eye
lasting impressions last only as long as they’re willing to succumb to the daily grind of meandering mediocrity and ass-cancer-keeping-up-with-the-Joneses-politicking

god, it’s always the ass cancer, ain’t it a bitch. but if it ain’t the ass it’s still the cancer
jim shepard was not a shepherd, prophet or salesman, he was another exterminator eaten by big fucking bugs
lost my determination, lost my will to thrill, everything went polka dotted, the fire within lost its concentration. it exploded, turned into poems and we know by now
they are just poems not reasons

reasonable doubt tore into me like an anti-Atticus-Finch who left his Gentleman's Agreement in his other slacks or was it chino’s, a man has to look good as he wallows deeper into some bland cream colored despair.
blind love, blind luck, blind suffering misfires and blinds an audience of all seeing miscreants

Jason Baldinger/Charles Cicirella

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