Hey Pig


I’m sitting on the floor of my house.  My back hurts and the room has a slight spin to it.  I find humor in the stupidest things.  Like saying the word PIGGY out loud.  I am of course listening to live versions of NIN song “Piggy”  Nothing can stop me now.  Ya you. I’m watching the moon and your movements.  Isn’t that comforting?  Fuck no!  Who would want someone saying that they are watching your movements?! It’s terrible and disgusting.  But if you are into that, please email me…that was just a side note between me and the perverts.  You came here to read poetry and poetic discords.  Of Course, so we should provide you with your desire.  The poetry is the hard part, the discord is the sticking point, the recreational drug use is the glue.  Why not?  Our children will thank us someday. I’ve seen more nights of pure blood and heartbreak than sunflowers and happy endings.  And you know that children love sunflowers…it’s a fact.

I’ve decided to cut my hair off tonight.  Then I realized that I’ve already cut it off.  Isn’t that spetacular?  I think so, but then again, you are probably far above me with your intellect and pretty looks….It’s ok, I have free beer here so that about evens it out, doesn’t it?.  Well truth is, that I paid for it, but if I have to compete with your good looks then fuck it, I’m gonna try to stack the deck in my favor, it’s how the wicked champion over the dumb.  Nothing personal.  That’s how we look at the stars.  Everyone wants poetry…”oh my good man…recite me a poem…read me a poem…write a poem about me.”  I understand where you are coming from and my question is why?  Why do I need to write something for you?  Because I’m lonely?  Because you deserve it?  Well, my sweetness I’ll give you a poem that you deserve.  Enjoy it, tell your friend but don’t get upset with me because of the language I’ve used…I’ve already cashed the check.  Perhaps I am running beyond the scope of propriety?

I’m here and I don’t know why.  I can’t hear the ocean, I cannot wear my shorts and sandels all year long.  I don’t know about this place anymore.  Don’t get me wrong, when I have 12 beers and listen to the Beach Boys, I’m right here with you all.  But it’s the hangovers that kill me.  I hear one note of Little Duece Coupe and I’m gonna kill someone.  and that’s another thing, I have never seen any place more ready to sue someone else…so I’m sure I’ll be sued by someone for something because I’m telling you this outloud.  I don’t even live in southern california for chrissakes, but for everyone back east.  California means sunny beaches, surfing and the Beach Boys.  Purity.  Innocence.  Long skirts.  Well we know that is not the case!  Just look at where I live…a goddamn foothill town that last year got more snow than goddamn Michigan.  Think about that folks…..Michigan!  I know it sucks huh?  But we’ve got the song “California Girls” and you don’t, so FUCK YOU!  Listen to that with a cold beer between your legs and you cannot help but think about running out to sunny California!   That I suppose is why I live in California….that and the Doors.  The Eagles can suck it…but I admit “the Long Run” is one helluva coke song.    Only in California.

So I understand that we were supposed to be talking about poetics….well, I suggest reading your own tea leaves, buying a book called “The Distance Between” from Amazon and crawling up with someone you can have sex with tonight because really what else do you have?  No one is comfortable in their skin these days without AtiVan and Xanex, we’ve all got kids we wished had other dads, and the tide doesn’t wait for us.  Nothing does.  Perhaps if this were 1923 someone would wait at the train depot in some small town of apple pies but these days no one rides the trains, except Matt Amott, one man against a generation of high flyers.  There is nothing to keep us safe and nothing to keep us happy anymore.  So what can we do you say?  well let’s start with ideas…who has them and who is willing to jump into them.  we all can make a movement happen.  We all can build the tower of fun, if we just step forward and buy a round.  There is no end, a good friend once told me that.

Well now is the time of night, we listen to “Dark End of the Street”.  If you haven’t heard it, then you haven’t drank Malt Liquor and stepped out, if you have…well then I know you are dancing to the beauty of pure soul.

Anyway it’s a fine evening and why should I bring it down?  Everyone will find love.  Everyone will find happiness.  Everyone will cash in their chips…I only hope I have more chips than you.

Talk to you another night…

yours deeply,

Todd Cirillo, Esq.



Filed under Drinking, Poetry, Publishing, Small Press, The Writer's Life, Uncategorized, Writer's Block, Writing

2 responses to “Hey Pig

  1. Lisa (your baby cuz)

    Boo. The Eagles are wonderful. And so is Michigan. 🙂

    On a brighter and more motivating note… great work, Todd! Keep on, man. Keep on.


  2. He’s back…. the Great Todd Cirillo, Esq. Love that guy.


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