Noah Cicero: Bipolar Cowboy

Noah lived in 2014, in a world where sincerity was addiction and addiction was sincerity.

He lived in a world where sincerity was not honored. Everyone was expected to get a self-help book and move on to the next psychological replacement.

Noah Cicero didn’t know how to end the poem. If you want, you can imagine him referencing the television show Breaking Bad or a cicada in Japan making its shrill ring-ring noise, endlessly looking for love.

Then Noah said fuck it and said, “ And the darkness has not overcome it. ”

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Previous poem had to be deleted because it was lies and hysteria in Noah’s mind.

Okay here I go, I’m going to write this poem:

A girl had a crush on Noah, they kissed in the Grand Canyon forest,

walked to the bottom of the canyon together,

they said sweet things to each other.

But she moved back to her country—

a country deep in Europe.

Noah went to Vegas and slowly lost his mind,

Miss Europe never stopped messaging,

telling him “I love you,” “I love you,” “I love you.”

Noah didn’t need her love, her validation.

He felt annoyed by her pleas.

He never thought of the girl in Europe,

even though she was wonderful and nice and smart,

and loved Noah for being Noah. She never

crossed his mind.

Then it hit him, that is what he was doing

to her, the woman deep in the East,

on the coast of Lake Erie.

Noah Cicero = annoying fuckhead.

He was annoying the girl in the East. She didn’t

think about him that much, if at all some days.

She didn’t think about him.

He freaked out and wrote eight horrible

text messages, the meanest things

he had ever said to anyone.

She didn’t respond to one. She either felt bad for him,

felt truly guilty, or just felt extremely annoyed by this

asshole she once dated.

Noah Cicero didn’t mind when people died, because that is

the order of life, everything dies and changes into another substance

and that substance changes into another substance.

But to be

rejected

then forgotten in an efficient manner.

(Noah Cicero’s brain just made a huge smashing sound, like a mountain avalanche, a guitar getting too close to the amp, a nuclear-type scene, gore blood gnashing of teeth the ineffable noise of truth.)

(Noah Cicero decided months later to tell himself he didn’t know why she left him, and it was okay.)

(Sometimes he told himself that she loved him and just didn’t have the courage to say it, and in the right conditions on the right night with the right amount of alcohol she would let him touch her hair.)

He stopped annoying her, he has yet to bother her since.

Noah Cicero’s life

was mostly a vast collection

of cultural appropriations.

His love of Asian food,

using chopsticks

and Asian religion.

His love for the southwest

and Native American mysticism.

But the vendetta,

the vendetta was deep

in his genetics.

He could hate

with a deep sincerity.

He could carry a grudge

for years.

After three generations

in America, the Sicilian

had almost been wiped clean

by American consumerism,

its admiration

for the Protestant work ethic

and self-help philosophy. But

the vendetta remained.

At least he did not have to

appropriate that.

Noah was meditating

on his adobe porch

in Northwest Las Vegas—

When a man flew on

a cloud to him.

It was Jeon Uchi.

The Taoist magician who lives

on Mount Taebaek.

Noah was taken to North Korea—

to sit on a mat on Mount Taebaek.

Jeon gave Noah a cup of tea.

Noah asked him—

What is the most unspeakable truth.

Jeon Uchi replied, “What is an

unspeakable truth, a truth

that everyone knows, but no one

wants to hear said out loud.”

Noah tried to sip his tea, but

it was too hot.

Jeon Uchi continued:

“Norman Mailer stabbed his wife,

DFW bought a gun to kill a guy,

William S. Burroughs shot

and killed his wife. Kerouac

had a daughter he paid child support for,

but refused to see. These people

were epic assholes.

People will love people

no matter what

terrible shit they do.

We forgive people, even when

they don’t ask for forgiveness.

When there is no

atonement,

no penance.

Why do we love people?

Why do we forgive evil?

Stupidity—

Shallowness—

the darkest motives.

We forgive

because we are attached,

we have known them a long time,

we have put them into the

category of family or friend.

We want to have sex with them.

Because they entertain us.

We even forgive child molesters

if they make good movies.

The unspeakable truth

is that we need written laws

that have mystic origins—

with weapons to keep

them upheld.

Because we are too

forgiving of our friends

and family. We take their side,

even when we know

they are wrong, and lying.

The world would collapse

into chaos without law

not because we are

savage beasts, but because

we are so forgiving.”

Noah’s tea was finally

cool enough to sip.

Noah Cicero had a tragic flaw.

The emotion of not

wanting to be rejected

was more important

than wanting actual love.

We sat many a Saturday

on the bank of the Han River,

in Seoul. Drinking makkoli,

looking at Basquiats, talking

about what it means to be Jewish,

when we danced at Susie Q’s to

“Changes” by David Bowie.

I was happy that night.

You thought David Bowie said,

“Time may change me, but

I can’t change time,” and you

said that was deep and awesome.

I agreed it was awesome.

Later I looked up the lyrics and it

said “trace time” and we both got angry.

When I listen to “Changes” by David Bowie,

I sing the word “change” and not “trace.”

We saw each other a year later, in Seattle.

From the edge of Asia to the

edge of North America.

We like edges.

I was having a lot of problems, I couldn’t stop

crying and having panic attacks. I tried

to keep it a secret. What secrets

did you have?

I sat in the hotel room you purchased,

and cried and could not get it together.

We stood in front of the Space Needle,

had someone take a picture of us

making a heart. It didn’t much look like a heart,

and everyone just laughed.

You told me you were getting a doctorate

in Korea, I asked if you wanted to be a

Korean professor in America. You said,

“No, only to study.”

I remembered one of my Korean students,

a 15-year-old boy who said,

“To study is the sincere way of life.”

When you were leaving, you forgot your sweater.

I remembered the sweater, you bought it

after we had dinner in Hongdae. The girlfriends

we had then are gone, but we are still here.