Wednesday, July 08, 2020

Dan Klute

He sweats earnestness from every pour of his Michigan born body.
Met him in Kalamazoo when the Bob show was brown and the Coleman stove burned liquid fuel like it was going out of style.
There’s no pretending with this guy because once you look into his Shepherd eyes you know you’re sunk like the Titanic or a doughnut in a cop’s cup of Joe.

I can hear the father and son from across the hall arguing and it reminds me I’m not the only one going off my rocker.
We’re firmly embroiled in this pandemic predicament that keeps right on trucking through our lives like a bull hell-bent on world domination.
Only America has seemed to not get the memo that if we don’t cease and desist from endlessly screaming about our constitutional rights we’ll be Dixie fried like the peanut butter, banana and bacon in the King’s sandwich of choice.

Yes this poem was meant to be for Klute and yet I’ve gone off the rails because too often when playing Chutes and Ladders shoving the game pieces up your nose hardly solves the problem at hand.
When I’m impossible to deal with Dan knows just what not to say because he has turned his back on conflict a long time ago.
I love Dan Klute like I love Lady Liberty and I hope I’m always welcomed into his heart because it’s only his friendship that keeps me whole and relatively sane as too many people around me go nuts and I’m once again accused of being a monster.

Charles Cicirella

No comments: