Fuck Stigma (For Mikal) I know it’s easier said than done. I know having to be reminded of memories you’d rather keep locked up in a vault is beyond excruciating and non-essential in these hard pressed and hard worn times. I know you’re not a martyr, but try and keep in mind the stigmas Christ wrestled with when he was up there on that cross. “Time passes slowly when you're lost in a dream.” Just ask Zimmerman. Just ask Jiminy Cricket when he was doing his best to convince Pinocchio he was a real boy. We all have a part to play. At least that’s what I like to believe when denial has worn out its welcome and the darkness no longer comforts me like it once did. We’re writers and I guess that’s a badge of honor if you’re into that sort of thing, but we both know that’s a waste of time and that being an Eagle Scout isn’t all it’s cracked up to be. You wield the pen like a scalpel as you take the tiger by its tail and show William Blake whose boss and why a "Glad Day" isn’t just for the fallen any longer. Sometimes dreams really do come true and you know exactly what I mean as you become enveloped in her silver lining and forget all about the gossipy clouds. I’m channeling my inner orangutan as I sit here on the floor writing these words in Cleveland, Ohio and send them to you in Woodland Hills, California. When the world breaks apart it also heals in pieces and parts. The way you hear music and internalize music is no small feat and this blessing will continue to bless you no matter the weather breaking outside your window or inside your gaunt frame. I know it’s easier said than done, but you’ve never been a pushover, no matter how difficult the memories are to face. Charles Cicirella 11/15/15

It Takes a Lot to Laugh (For Bobby) The way he says baby just kills me dead. He returns from Newport tongue on fire. Something’s changed, something’s happening here. We sin, repent, gargle in the rat race choir. And we spare no expense when it’s someone else’s money or creativity. But Dylan he’s cut from an entirely poles apart cloth and the medicine he was mixing up in ’65 and ‘66 is like nothing heard before or since. We travel the roadways and byways believing we’re something special, something exceptional when nothing could be further from the truth. I believe America is afraid of its own shadow. I believe ISIS or ISIL or whatever you choose to call them has got our number and if we’re not careful they’ll shake us to our very foundation. I also believe the world will not tolerate intolerance for long and when push finally comes to shove we’ll slay these fire breathing dragons because that’s what knights in shining armor do. He stands tall in that studio like a traveling salesman or besmirched romantic. I have a friend named Jerry whose sideburns are legendary and when he sings like a bird I discover myself no longer walking in the darkness alone. Oh yes “If I was a master thief perhaps I’d rob them,” but your heartbreaks are none of my business so I’ll just stand over here all by my lonesome and bowl a strike or two in your spare time. The way he delivers the word winning restores my faith in humankind because the past is ours to acknowledge or dispel at our own detriment. Bob Johnston seems like a better fit as a new day rained down upon them like user-friendly lightning bolts from a love-struck God. When Dylan’s in the zone there’s no one better equipped at shining a light on all of the possibilities that were not even imaginable until he entered the studio. “It Takes A Lot To Laugh, It Takes A Train To Cry” and I’m quite certain this is true no matter what side you’re on. Bobby navigates these inroads better than anyone because he’s not afraid to succeed or fail on his own terms as he sacrifices everything including his wellbeing. There are many rock ‘n’ roll animals, but none of them seem as hungry or as literal as Dylan when he’s firing on all cylinders. Charles Cicirella 11/15/15

Squinting One word. One footstep. Christ the Savior. Lucifer the Denier. Here are these words. Here is this bread. Let’s not worry about consecration. Let’s not burden ourselves over mirrored reflections of sin eaters feasting on our guilt and shame. No more disclaimers. No more sleepless nights seeking assurances that a childhood trauma wasn’t your fault. Do you remember when we hugged for the first time and how it felt like things made some actualized sense? Do you remember when you finally let go and told someone that you loved them and even more importantly when you heard those same words coming back to you? A Church, Temple, Mosque they’re all just buildings. God is in our hearts and nothing and no one can tear these beliefs asunder. Charles Cicirella 11/16/15

Inspiration Sucks the Very Life Out Of Me and I Like It (It’s Only Poetry and I like It) (This one’s for all the poets out there who have an actual clue. You know who you are. Hold your applause, but by all means pat yourselves on your back when it’s all said and done and I’ve disappeared out the backdoor.) I’m inspired. I’m not. I have no idea where the inspiration goes, but I cannot even begin to tell you how ecstatic I am when it returns and chooses to play with me again. I was a thief, but I wasn’t anybody’s savior so you can stuff your paltry impressions of me inside your Sherlock pipe and suck it at your own discretion. Ya I’m on food stamps, but who isn’t that’s actually worth a damn and is willing to run at the wall with all the gumption they’ve got before they cannot even recognize their best friend or their best friend’s dog and they’re sitting on a bench drooling, feeding the pigeons silences. I’m not a tall drink of water. In fact I’m not even a shot and a beer, but that’s okay because I still pack enough of a punch to set you back on your heels if you’re into that sort of thing. I met John Burroughs in Canton, Ohio at some coffee shop I’m pretty sure I’ll never set foot in again. I really thought great things would come from that fortuitous meeting, but I couldn’t have been more wrong. Of course my instincts as focused and as razor sharp as they often are doesn’t mean I always get it right or for that matter even know what’s really happening much of the time. We lean into it. We grow our hair long and believe we’re letting our freak flags fly when actually we’re too buttoned up for our own good and until we figure out how to unzip our minds the terrorists will win with their fear and their hatred and their loathsome way of turning our most hallowed of beliefs into some vile mind game ensuring our very destruction. We destroy our freedoms by peddling so much rhetoric it’s impossible any longer to tell the good guys from the bad guys, if there was ever a difference to begin with. Whenever someone espouses the words holy war just know they’re completely full of radioactive shit and will do their very best to run you down in the street like a dog because if they don’t silence you or at the very least blow themselves up while trying to silence you, then they’ll have to live with themselves for another uninspired, methodical day and that’s something no one wants to face, especially when they have no real love to give. Charles Cicirella 11/18/15

The Fog of Love Lost in the dark stank of your love. I’m drowning and not even Dear Abby can right this ship. I’m full of rice and beans and lots of other stuff I refuse to own up to without my attorney present. The fog of love is not happenstance or for that matter even circumstances gone awry. There were no coincidences when we met other than me being asleep in front of that ballpark in South Bend and you at another gate waiting like a bandit for the world to end. It’s time for me to lay down because oftentimes only sleep can cure what ails us and that includes the stench of guilt dripping from our every exposed and unexposed cavities. Memory Lane did not quite suit me so I put on a football uniform and pretended I was an athlete for a spell. No one believed me and before you know it I was back on the bench wishing a cheerleader or band geek would take pity on my wallflower standing. I sit here waiting for the words to come and when they don’t I do my best to fake it until I either make it or break into the teensiest pieces and parts of another comatose poet, hell bent on diving headfirst into oblivion without even a spell checker to right my wrongs. I know you thought I was a better man so I bet it came as quite a shock when the curtain was pulled back and you realized my strings could be pulled just as easily as any puppets and my survivor status was about to be revoked for failing to answer the call when Darwin came knocking on my tortoise shell. Lost in the perversity of another hangover that could have been so easily avoided. I don’t believe Charlie Sheen has a compassionate bone in his soulless body and what’s with all these self-serving actors who have everything handed to them on a gold or silver platter and still expect unprotected sex even when they’re HIV positive because “he was famous long ago for playing the electric violin on Desolation Row.” It’s true not all of us have tiger’s blood or are on the path to “WINNING”, but we mustn’t forget being a complete unknown often outweighs all the red carpets, free gift bags and free drugs because going through life as an anonymous entity really is a gas, gas, gas and beats the rude awakening of no longer being a celebrity and not even being able to land a commercial for toe fungus. Charles Cicirella 11/18/15

Julie #2 (Ophelia) Poets are coffee percolators. If we’re patient the words and the feelings and the emotions will come together like a tsunami of creative pageantry, a God force that will leave you spent and trembling. Poets stand the test of time like Noah before and after he became an arc builder. I want to advance with you through the gloomy and Lite-Brite forests of a virtual reality unraveling before us like string cheese or another reckless and wanton ball of yarn. We start as leopards who believe they cannot change their spots and before you know it we’re capable of anything as we channel our inner Dr. Seuss and focus on what’s really going on. Some people resist the notion of ever creating anything original, while others know if you don’t take a risk every now and again what’s even the point of accepting this life and doing your best to outgrow your skeleton and brain trust? Poets are living, breathing labyrinths ready and willing to go the distance once boundaries have been displaced and our worst nightmares have been tucked in and read a bedtime story. Julie appeared in a disco ball of glitz, glamour and a librarian’s knowledge that the books inside our heads are the cradle of civilization. Julie’s a Shakespearean actress who understands it’s the words underneath the acting that will break these Victorian chains and deliver us from our cloven hooved bondage. Charles Cicirella 11/19/15

Fear Cripples You (For Shareen Mansfield and Shawna Ayoub Ainslie) I’d say let’s watch our tone, but what would be the point? We’ve all done things we’re not proud of. We’ve all had our grip on sanity loosened as a darkness feeds on our psyches and we’re bound to come up short, and we’re no longer bound for glory. I’d say stop throwing stones if you live in a glass enclosure, but we all live in glass houses and sometimes it’s not enough telling right from wrong or separating good from evil. I was afraid of my own shadow until realizing I was using myself as a punching bag and if I wasn’t careful I’d consume my very soul and be left with nothing but doom and gloom. Fear cripples you by making you feel like only in its embrace are you safe. It creates its own comfort zone of deniability and before long only hate speech is emanating from your exit wounds. We must treasure the time we have left, right and center and stop catering to the lowest common denominator as we drag ourselves back into the disinfected sunlight. I’d say we best watch our tone, but what would be the point when the white noise of political correctness is all around us and we’ve forgotten what it means to love our neighbors. I was standing my ground gathering up all of the strength I possibly could muster when they pinned a Star of David on my chest. At first I couldn’t believe this was happening, but then I began to understand too many people use history as a closed fist and not as a wide open expanse to a brighter and more positive future. Charles Cicirella 11/21/15

I Don’t Want To Be Happy I don’t want to be happy. There I said it. The cat is out of the bag or the box or wherever it was hiding. It’s no great mystery. I always feel like the other shoe is waiting to drop and happiness is just putting off the inevitable. So I’ll sit here and write and vent and eat and write some more and try and do my best to not wonder why no one ever calls or asks how I’m doing. I don’t want to be happy it’s just a burden. And maybe I don’t really mean that, but I am tired of putting in the work with little to no real payoff. So this time I’m going to stick to my guns and if you don’t like it well you can be one more person I’ve let down. I’m forty six years old and I like to joke that I’m an irascible Care Bear and perhaps it’s true or maybe I’m just an arrested adolescent who refuses to get their shit together because responsibility is such a drag and survival of the fittest proves nothing except that tortoises live for a really long time and the early bird gets the worm and the morning newspaper. I’m the curmudgeon living under the bridge that all of the children’s books warn you about, but I try to always be an honest broker even when I’m lying to myself and the Queen of Denial has become my best and only trustworthy friend. Let’s not mince words or put anchovies on our pizza because they’re too damn salty and minced words are only good for haiku and telling someone to fuck off. People will tell you only the strong survive and that may be true, but I see lots and lots of weak people doing the daily grind and they seem to be doing just fine. I don’t trust that any of us are really safe. Home invasions scare the crap out of me and so does intimacy with another creative being because people who are good at expressing themselves always seem like they’re the first ones to crack. Charles Cicirella 11/22/15

Slather on the Mustard I’m hungering for your intellect. Let’s objectify each other’s minds. Until we’re satiated and out of time. I’m craving your principled stands sticking it to the man. Let’s take a road trip to the other side of this fractured world. Until we’ve exhausted our bank accounts and good will. I double dog dare you to slather the mustard on your corndog until it resembles the yellow line running down your “The sun’s not yellow it’s chicken” back. Patriotism is such a loaded word especially when the second amendment kills more people than it protects. Yes it’s true I’m a liberal, but I’m hardly a bleeding heart and I will refuse to call myself a progressive until the day I breathe my last exhausted breath. Senator Bernie Sanders being a Democratic socialist isn’t what’s keeping him out of the Whitehouse. Take it from a fellow Hebrew when I tell you it’s his being Jewish that makes it less than palatable for most people to vote for him. We’re all about showing our love for Israel, but when push comes to shove most people could care less if Israel was pushed into the Sea of Galilee. It’s not that I don’t want to give thanks. I’ve just never been very good at seeing the glass half full and oftentimes wonder why we cannot just smash the glass and stand or fall on our own two feet. I’m not hiding in the closet, but I still refuse to discuss my sexual orientation with you. Oh I’m as straight as they come, but even if I wasn’t what business would that be of yours? I grew up with Bruce Jenner on the Wheaties box and I’m wondering if putting Caitlyn Jenner on that same box has been seriously discussed. I can’t stand Bruce and I’m really not sure what to make of Caitlyn and yet when I was eight years old it meant so much to me to see him on that box of cereal and I believe it would mean just as much, if not more, for children to see Caitlyn Jenner on that same Wheaties box. Charles Cicirella 11/25/15

Sketch Comedy Touch my penis. And I will rub your vagina. We’ll either enjoy it or we won’t. That’s how the cookie often crumbles when your mouth is filled with milk and despair. We were going nowhere fast so I put on the breaks just to see what would happen. I’ll never forget watching as you went through the windshield and the sickly pangs of joy I felt as the delicate creature you once were became indelicate and indisposed. When I got out of the car I couldn’t believe how sexy you still were and how the whole mangled and mashed thing worked for you. Stroke my issues of low self-esteem. And I will somehow reach your candy center before you become sour and muted. You always had this off-kilter way of making me feel brand new when my thrift store body and second hand intellect had had enough and there was no point going on, especially when our love had taken a detour and I was tired of all those three ways you were becoming enmeshed in. That’s how the femme fatale breaks when her eyes are bigger than her stomach and her legs will only bend so far back before they snap like insubordinate twigs or sugar free candy canes. I used to believe we would make it through no matter the harsh conditions swirling around us like Frosty the Snowman with a crystal meth problem or Rudolph the Red Nosed Reindeer with a nose so bright that the PoPo knows exactly where to look when rounding up the usual suspects. Some people cannot get enough cowbell while I’ve learned less is most definitely more, especially when it’s next to impossible training your significant other to play all of the parts in your next sketch comedy. You cannot make someone do something just because you demand it of them unless you’re a dictator and what fun is there in that if you always know what the outcome will be and genocide becomes just another over played hand you’ll most likely get tired of once everyone has gone up in smoke. Charles Cicirella 11/23/15

Bottom of the Well I don’t know how we got here, but here we are all the same. It’s chilly and dark and all hope has been vanquished. Poetry is not a whore or a manservant. It’s another tool, another form of expression like insurance fraud but far more lucrative. Don’t pretend you don’t know what I’m taking about because I know you speak the language of love and hate and all of the other squishy emotions existing between the South and North Poles. I remember when we met in that diner on the outskirts of the city. I wanted to order chocolate cake, but you said it wasn’t American so instead I ordered apple pie ala mode and choked it down like all good Christians choke on Jesus’s communion wafer. I’m not intending to be blasphemous that’s just how it comes out when there’s a gun to my head and terrorism has become the new patriotism. I’ll never forget when we fell down the rabbit hole, but because your name was Alice you were treated differently as the Queen of Hearts repeated over and over again "Off with their heads!" as I did nothing more than simply ask for a glass of H2O. I’ll never forget staring death in the hollows of its erroneous face and how emotionless and unforgiving I felt as I went mad from unsuccessfully trying to feed my head. I don’t know what it is about the bottom of this well, but something’s telling me I’ve been here before. The déjà vu washes over me like reruns of unaired Honeymooners episodes as you sit there in the corner of the room like some ventriloquist’s dummy that’s been left in the desert for forty days and forty nights. There’s something to be said for changing the conversation by simply changing the color of one’s stripes, but for some of us it’s not that easy or advisable when the terms dictated are the very same principles you abandoned so long ago. Charles Cicirella 11/23/15

"The horror! The horror!" Porn has gotten a hold of me and it won’t let go. I pray I come out of this black hole in one piece. Things used to be simpler. I could see a pair of tits and it was enough. Now I need the whole enchilada with all of the toppings including sour cream and hot sauce! We begin as children sneaking a peek at our father’s Playboys and hoping no one is the wiser. It’s like there’s something wrong with how we’re suddenly feeling and the shame drives us into a deep, dark emptiness that some of us never quite escape from again. I remember trying to find the word vagina in the dictionary and coming across Virginia and becoming quite perplexed. The last week or so I’ve again found myself on a model cam sight. I tend to watch the models from other countries. Kazakhstan has become a new favorite and of course the Japanese, Korean and Chinese models never fail to leave me wanting more. We trade in the shreds of our dignity for a shot at the fuzzy peach because we believe one look and we’ll be set free from our daily labors and night terrors. Nothing could be further from the truth as I discover myself feeling even more lonely and depressed as I slither from a room at six or seven in the morning wondering if the baggage I’m carrying will ever become lighter and less damning. Porn has got me in a stranglehold and I cannot break free. I’d get down on my knees if I believed there was someone actually listening who could wave a magic wand and make me a less obsessive compulsive horndog who wasn’t always so concerned about his next conjugal visit with his right hand and the release that may or may not come when everything is said and done. Things used to be simpler. You’d turn on Cinemax after everybody had gone to bed and you’d watch people sort of having “sex” and just the thought of you doing this naughty deed while your family slept upstairs was enough to get you off. Now everything has changed and antiseptic porn just won’t do the trick and you need harder core and more illicit images to push you over the edge. Charles Cicirella 11/28/15

Just Breathe (For Sinéad) Woke up and read the news and it hurt me deep down inside. Then I read that you felt music had destroyed your life and I cannot believe you really feel that way because what else could you be but a musician and a healer of the faith. I cannot even imagine how broken up inside you are as you cry for help over and over and over again and no one seems to be listening to what you have to say. We met in Chicago for a few brief seconds. You were the rock star boss and I was just another fan. I passed you a vinyl rip of “Street Legal” and a CD of my poetry because I believed making a connection with you would be beneficial to us both. Just breathe Sinéad and try and believe that as forsaken as you feel right now there’s always a light at the end of this dark night of your soul even if you refuse help and won’t allow the sunlight of your music back inside of your wounded eaglet soul. Charles Cicirella 11/30/2015

Rip the Flesh from My Face Channeled energies. Synonymous with youth. There’s piss and vinegar in your swagger, So delighted you never ran for public office. The black rain invaded our peace of mind. There was turmoil cutting us into halves before we even got close to the Temple Mount. God and gun both words have three letters and have caused way too much bloodshed. You say guns and Gods don’t kill people. I call you on your bullshit as Scientology cuts off the blood to your brain and you give into old resentments disguised as fresh hatred. Jesus suggested we sit down and talk. I refused to even look him in the swallows of his reworked face because I knew his past glories were more formative than anything I’ve so far accomplished in my Leave It To Beaver life. You want to rescue me? You think you can do me some actualized good? You think you won’t be just another letdown as religiosity shakes me to my very core? More fabricated prophets and wolves disguised as golden calves knock upon my door as I turn into one of the The Walking Dead because it’s simpler than revisiting the 12 steps. Poetry refuses to let me off the hook. Either you write what you know or you don’t it’s that simple as you pump more of your photocopied words into the public discourse and are received as the next flavor of the month messiah. I swallowed so many sour grapes I turned purple and reeked of a vineyard. The color purple did not look good on me so I did my best to hide in the anonymous ravings of another false, unrepentant wino. So delighted when you called me on my cell phone and finally accepted me for who I am and stopped rejecting me for not reaching the expectations you laid out like Sunday clothes or a new and more restrictive skin. Charles Cicirella 11/30/15

Blowing Up Your Mind Words get stuck in my head like gum to the bottom of my shoe. If I don’t write them down I’ll never shake them and they’ll continue to shake me. The storm outside was fast approaching and I knew I would never outrun it so I did my best to hide away inside of my recurrent dreams and nightscapes. I wish we were better friends, but how would that even work when we both have a fear of intimacy and don’t trust love to last. For years I wondered why I wasn’t able to locate my soulmate then I began to understand until I like who I am, how is anyone else ever going to enjoy my company? We start from scratch as we build relationships from stardust and sleep studies. Social networking is for the birds if all you ever want is to be left alone. The writing on the wall proves nothing except that someone believed those cave drawings someday may actually prove beneficial or clandestine to another civilization that’s doing their damndest to stand on their own two feet. I need to write what I’m feeling before everything is either lost in absentia or is eaten away by the plaque on my brain. There’s a reckoning coming and I reckon we best all find shelter before the glaciers completely melt and intolerance rings our bell for the final time. Charles Cicirella 12/2/15

The Real Terrorism The real terrorism is homegrown. The real terrorism is the distortion of The Second Amendment of the United States Constitution so that the NRA can sell guns to anyone regardless of how dangerous or mentally unstable they may be because money talks and money bleats and not a single one of us is safe until the adults push back on these assassins and stand up once and for all for sensible gun laws. The real terrorism is selling the American people a bag of goods that no one is actually buying as another straw purchase goes undetected and another mass shooting is passed off as just another day in America the beautiful, America the bloody and profane. The Republican thugs want us to wrap our heads around the insane notion that more not less guns will make us safer and that gun free zones are the real problem. When did the Wild West come back into vogue with such a vengeance and why would anyone ever need an AR-15 rifle to hunt or protect their family? These illiterate redneck pieces of shit that tout The Second Amendment like a NASCAR racing flag really need to go back to school because what they believe this amendment states is in fact not what it says at all. What it is actually talking about is a well regulated Militia, being necessary to the security of a free State so unless someone is threatening our State not every Tom, Dick and Jane should be able to so easily buy a firearm without sensible gun laws in place. When the Sandy Hook Elementary School shooting occurred and 20 children and 6 adult staff members were fatally shot you would have thought a developed country such as ours would have finally been shamed into doing the right thing and yet once again nothing of any real consequence was done and just yesterday another mass shooting has taken place and fourteen people were killed in San Bernardino, California. You can try and make the argument that guns don’t kill people, people do, but I am no longer having this conversation because enough is beyond enough and the gun manufacturers need to be taken to task and if that means taking away the guns of even the sane, responsible people well so be it because something needs to change right now and all of this non-talk is only adding to the carnage and spilling of more blood. Don’t lecture me on terrorism abroad when we have our very own “caliphate” right here in the land of the free and the home of the brave, and the leader of this “caliph’s” name is Wayne LaPierre and he must be stopped at all costs. Charles Cicirella 12/3/15

I’m thinking about you I’m thinking about you and I don’t even know who you are. I’m thinking about you and I don’t even have a hard on because this isn’t sexual or cerebral, it just is. We "skip the light fandango," simply because we have nothing better to do and that’s alright because sometimes you need to do something before you go crazy from the nothingness weighing you down like a skyscraper or guilty conscience. I’m thinking about you because it beats thinking about all the bad shit going on in the news and how none of us are safe and nobody seems to have a fucking clue. I’m thinking about you because it beats beating off and going nowhere fast as semen covers my hands leaving me even emptier than I was before the sunset. I’m thinking of you, but I won’t call because I don’t want to get into the habit of habitually craving you. You were lying in bed just about to fall asleep when the lines came to you like a body needing to be unburied. I have found myself in a similar situation. Fighting the urge to ignore the poetry, but knowing it doesn’t work like that because when inspiration calls you best rise from your coffin and capture the words before they give up on you. I’m thinking about you in the dark scribbling down the lines as they crawl out of your black raspberry sorbet eye sockets like perverse maggots hungering for papyrus and Glitter-Witch flesh, leaving me even more craven and desperate than I was before starting this poem. Charles Cicirella 12/5/15

“Hope is a terrible thing on the scaffold.” (For Scott) Resist the temptation to tempt yourself. I am thinking about eating some unfrosted strawberry Pop-Tarts. It’s 2:53 AM do you know where your doctor is? An even better question does your doctor give a crap where you are? We sleep in our dreams because we’re too lazy to wake up and crush reality with our unnerving strength and redoubtable courage. We trespass on another person’s virtual reality because we don’t have the good sense to know when to breathe our last breath and turn our backs on our next regeneration. The first time I met you at 3160 I knew you were a Time Lord passing themselves off as a Cut-Out because as we both know resistance is futile when time is your little bitch. Let’s get drunk on shots of Fireball Cinnamon Whisky and pretend we’re none the wiser when the cops are called and we’re arrested for public intoxication. Checked out your band while The Exorcist played in the background. Closed captioning was on as I watched some idiot with a pig mask from the band before you make a real ass of himself. When you hit the stage it was more than I could have hoped for. You had full command of everything transpiring around you as the paramount music whipped the audience into a lather and you pierced our inner-sanctum with your shovelhead intellect and alkaline wit. It was like I was in a time machine watching a friend I knew from a lifetime ago nail himself to the railroad tracks, as the clouds covered us in marshmallow topping and the oncoming train did its best to avoid his white bloated carcass. Every time we meet I have the best time because you have this uncanny ability of making everyone feel at ease with your rogue manners and clownish way of revealing the truth with your unbribable smile and Livewire Obscuria mix. Charles Cicirella 12/6/15