charlie’s killin it right now
he’s up and down those stairs like a tennis
like a slinky
like a new pair of socks
he’s beedleedooding and bombombopbop
he’s fierce ferocious
unpredictable dictable digestible indigestion
wop wop skidaddle and he’s
back to the same
and he’s still going he’s not stopping
still going not stopping
punchin through just punchin through like always
bird bird bird
the drugs tweedlydee
the days
tweedlydee the women
pooteeweet but not quite there yet
he’s spastic sporadic diasporically cantankerous
he’s motion in the ocean
jazz jazz jazz jazz
bang bang bang
he runs and he walks and he skidaddles
and he’s not too sure
you too sure
your nose it grows who too sure certainly not you
you too sure
mister too sure in the suit in the pants all grown up
you don’t know
listen to your old boy charlie
sitting on a tree branch listening for ambulances
as winter springs into summer’s fall and rinse and repeat
pooteeweet but not quite there yet
i tell ya though
charlie’s on fire right now


Author: brice maiurro

Denver poet. Author of Stupid Flowers, out now through Punch Drunk Press.

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