Sunday, October 17, 2021

A Roomful of Jimi Hendrix’s Mirrors

Shards of glass cutting into everything, including my chicken liver, pasty white skin.
My belly button is like a porthole on the Love Boat.
I don’t even know what that last line means, but when I figure it out I’ll call Juliet Cook so she can talk me off the ledge.

We’re all hedging our bets that the bought and paid for dumbass, greedy politicians will, when push comes to shove, do the right thing. Though to be perfectly honest, I believe, we’re already screwed, just like the dinosaurs long before an asteroid supremely rained down on their big dino asses.
I have no idea where or when the next words will come and still I’m all in with every poem I write, musical note I strike and brushstroke I brandish like a porn star ready to die on whichever hill they’re ordered to fuck next.
I’ve walked a tightrope from the moment I started writing poetry and probably even before then. Social safety nets are for the birds when our country is too afraid to actually help anyone and placating your sworn enemies is accepted as business as usual.

It’s sickening how quickly our country has moved into a post-truth wasteland and how the supposed powers that be are not doing a damn thing to push back on any of the whitewashed, revisionist bullshit.
Now we’re seen as traitors if we stand up for what we believe in against a tide of read-the-room, Kabuki politics that keeps social media buzzing as our eyes grow tired and turn their hunchbacks on us.
I gazed into Jimi Hendrix’s bellybutton and what I saw was a human being doing their damndest to outrun the hellhounds plaguing him long before being recast as the guitar messiah he was and will forever be.

Shards of glass slice into my arms like unapologetic razorblades seeking their next victim to slay with their shiny, disposable punchlines.
My poetry is never a cry for help, but instead a harbinger of things to come.
I’m not Chicken Little, but if I were I would tell you we’ve been bleeding from our anuses for far too long and not even the three preserved human heads in Jeffrey’s refrigerator would disagree with me.

Charles Cicirella

No comments: