Charlie: Uncut

A head-shakingly
constantly unconstant focus,
a vagabond vision,
an arrant knave’s attention
that stops and follows
a startling series of unwritten,
careening characters
(man/dog/bird/star
cat/kid/wind/woman whatever)
as they slide and slice
nicely cross his cross-haired lens
which zooms and pans bizarrely
(oh-so nearly/farly)
taking hummingbird sips
at life’s nubile nectars-
the seven-holed head
a camera that shoots to shoot
having naught to do with cinema,
with Cannes , with actors' glitz,
Paparazzi (turds), red carpets out-rolled.

This inner reel of his wheels
with bold words/sounds/images
through grabby eyes/ears/nose
(an operant blessing-curse)
a crazy collage in starts and fits collected-
both impressionistic and precise,
having naught to do with virtue/vice,
an actual furious festival of filming
fit to throng a cutting room floor...

unless, of course, it’s fickle force
could rearrange, repeat, congeal
and somehow yield a song
both true enough and strong
to resuscitate just one torpid heart
asleep/benumbed too long
to the ticklish ubiquity
of heavenly handiwork,
the shift of sacred,
timeless sands-

this little much of hope
our chummy Charles,
the darling dope,
though oft stuck in the above
described mucks and mires
still strugglingly
scribbles towards,
awkard and ungracefully aspires.