Sunday, December 17, 2017

Am I Hot?

There’s more and more crust in my ears.
Probably because I am showering less and less.
I’ve been depressed since before the burning bush took residence in my head.

I remember when I was a kid not being able to push down the malaise covering me like Paddington’s orange marmalade.
Only trips to the library on my yellow Free Spirit ten speed did anything to lessen the fear and anxiety I was experiencing.
When I started to write at fourteen it was like I’d finally found a friend and didn’t feel so lost or uncomfortable in my own skin.

You want the truth?
You want to know if magic’s real and if wishes really do come true?
Watch me ride into Jerusalem on the back of an ass and never forget how easy it is to get lost in your own complex of martyrs and Minotaur’s.

My crotch smells like the cheese rotting in the fridge and I’m resistant to taking a shower because I don’t particularly like the water’s fingers touching my opaque skin.
I know I best drag myself into the bathroom no matter if there’s a door or not because bathing is a part of life like the Heimlich maneuver and five o’clock shadow.
It’s always been so much easier to write a poem than to do the day to day things we must do to stay human like laundry and finding gainful employment.

Even other poets don’t seem to get me and that’s okay because I’ve never much trusted the status quo or the academic sludge passed off as poetry.
I wonder if when Christ returns if he’ll have any time for me or if he’ll dismiss my chosen status and instead pick someone else to play on his basketball team.
My fifteen minutes of fame escape from my penis like Stormtroopers hell-bent on protecting the Death Star or at the very least making sure George Lucas is not disturbed.

There’s less and less skin being left in the game as high-ranking insiders decide even their own companies are no longer worth investing in.
We’re at a crossroads of cataclysmic proportions and even the Cowardly Lion can no longer protect us from ourselves.
If we’re not willing to face the absolute truth then what good are we as we continue to take God’s name in vain and become more and more comfortable with the yellow and blue flames?

Charles Cicirella

Saturday, December 16, 2017

Am I Dead?

I know I shouldn’t have to ask, but sometimes that which is obvious eludes me like a hard spanking or soft kiss.
The poetry stuffed inside my gut like Little Debbie Snack Cakes and sometimes it makes sense while most of the time I’m left hanging by the most tenuous of threads.
It’s not a sign of death, but oftentimes avoiding your deepest, darkest feelings will only leave you in limbo or Passaic, New Jersey.

I’m calling out to you like a harpy.
Like a Bettie Page pin-up who allowed the leopard to lick her pussy because she liked how the leopard changed its spots for the holidays.
I’m calling out to you from underneath the coffee table because I’m afraid to face all the burgeoning questions resting atop another unread copy of Vanity Fair or within the folds of your James Brown “Mother Popcorn” skin.

The Democrats have finally proven beyond the shadow of any doubt just how spineless they are as the Mad Hatter sits in the White House eating his curds and whey, shitting out more self-congratulatory tweets and poisoning America with an unabashed ignorance we’ve not seen in a century or more on Pennsylvania Avenue.
Let’s go the way of the Dreamers who if congress have their way will be deported before you can blink an eye or flick a booger off your pointed and pugnacious finger.
I wanted to stay inside where it was warm, but I knew if I didn’t go out into the streets and start to march I’d find myself questioning why I still even exist in this land of defamation and ridicule.

Are we already dead?
Are we quite sure we’ll have the upper hand when push comes to shove and shove decides to sneak across the border and become Canadian?
You want the biggest slice of the pie? Okay fine, but just keep in mind the karmic chickens that will eventually come home to roost and all the repercussions that will whip you like a slave in orbit once a not so silent minority has their final say.

Charles Cicirella

Am I Alive?

I know I shouldn’t have to ask, but sometimes it’s hard to tell the living from the dead.
The poetry pours from me like blood, semen, piss and shit.
It’s not a sign of life, but sometimes you just have to take what you can get.

Let’s lose ourselves down the rabbit hole.
Alice called and wants her looking glass back.
Jack the Ripper called and said thanks for not putting up too much of a fight.

The Republicans have finally proven beyond the shadow of any doubt party before country no matter what, no matter who gets dead.
It’s the five year anniversary of Sandy Hook. We mustn’t celebrate our inability or ineffectiveness to make a difference.
This goes triple for you President Obama who proved just how dangerous hope can be when used as a dowsing rod to locate a nation’s sweet spot and then exploit it for their own political means.

Are we alive?
Does it matter if we’re only normalizing our horror until the spilling of blood becomes our national pastime like the trafficking of children and the privatization of our morality?
Proof of life is overrated especially when the air is unbreathable, the water is undrinkable and you’re a ghost walking around in someone else’s skin.

Charles Cicirella

Sunday, December 03, 2017


Ready to grow.
Moon pours through the trees.
Cat pounces on dead tortoise.

A slave to the art.
Justifications and rationales do not exist.
There is no glass. All therapists are full of shit.

Printing innards keeps me grounded and focused on what’s possible.
When she posts about assembling chapbooks my loins start to quiver and shake.
A means to an end doesn’t mean a damn thing if you’re not willing to commiserate.

Ready to get up and go.
Ready to go the distance no matter pratfalls or syrupy endings.
I desire to bring out the best in you by sharing only the best parts of myself.

Charles Eric Cicirella

Wednesday, November 29, 2017

Secret Alphabets

Writing again
I think
The kind of writing that will never get the attention of John Burroughs
Sometimes I wonder why that is. Most of the time I just accept the reality lying before us, perverse and swollen, bubbling with machismo and rapid fire flatulence
Christina M. Brooks is considering quitting poetry which really pisses me off because she has a real gift. Plus not sure how you give up something you’re born to do

Smoking pot
Listening to The Doors
Thinking about the young woman who sold me my bong. Her ass looked amazing inside those tight blue jeans. Made me rethink killing myself for the time being
Wanna get high?
Wanna break on through?
Then stop believing the endless barrage of bullshit being spilt like milk or a child’s blood

Charles Cicirella

Just The Tip

Burned the tip of my finger
Lighting the glass pipe
I guess it’s the price of being a stoner

Always wanted to believe irresponsibility was a virtue
Here’s my rub if fucking little boys in the butt
Isn’t a cardinal sin then pray tell what is?

Drank the two cans of Coke in the frig
Now I want more because it only takes one can
To become addicted to the Black Death that is Coca-Cola

And I wanted to drink lemonade with you beneath a shade tree,
But there’s only the lemons of my life and shade is non existent
In this Donnie Darko darkness

Maybe a sugar free grape Popsicle will do the trick
If I can get passed the flavor of artificial sweetener
I’m not a rat in a maze even though Pavlov is my God

I know the grass is running out
I’d be a liar if I said that wasn’t bringing me down
The genius of being a genius is catch and release

Charles Cicirella

Thursday, November 02, 2017

I don’t know how to grieve.

My mother died
Don’t have a clue what to do with this Intel
All my tears are conscientious objectors from another unobserved police action

I covered up her face with a white sheet
Then I uncovered her face so she could sing like a nightingale
I pray the check to the rabbi doesn’t bounce because I don’t feel like going to Hell today

I don’t know how to grieve
Properly or improperly
All my coping mechanisms have flown south for the winter

Tired of pretending I’m broken
Tired of wishing ill on others because I don’t know how to build my own happiness
Tired of being tired and want to wake up and walk away from all this sadness

My mother is dead
My father has been out of the picture for quite some time
Picture perfect families only exist on TV and in our most warped of nightmares

Grief and I have never quite seen eye to eye
When Hospice called I was inconsolable
Soon I stopped crying and a drought took hold like an absentee parent or vengeful God

Charles Cicirella

Wednesday, November 01, 2017

Baby Doll Mask (For Juliet)

Sequined pain
Streaming blood pageantries
Rusted Midwest soliloquies
Art witch seductress Brainiac
Bathroom stalled Obsessive

Charles Cicirella

Tuesday, October 31, 2017

Aztec Ruins

Civilization born from myth
The look of mayhem in your desert island eyes always keeps me coming back for more
I’ll never understand why you don’t like your tits

I want a doughnut, but not one that the powdered sugar gets on my fingers
I want you on all fours, but not because I think you’re a doggy. In fact it has nothing to do with me wanting you to fetch my L.L. Bean slippers
It’s been pointed out to me that my poetry objectifies women and for that I am very sorry even though nothing could be further from the lactating truth

Civilization propped up on kickstand-banana-seat-lies and the inhumanity of another festering-ego-sore
Jack was right, “You can’t handle the truth,” so stop acting so high and mighty because when you fall the damage will be colossal
Nobody believed he would win and when he did all of the racist scampering cock and cunt roaches came out of the deplorable woodwork to stake their claim in the primordial mud

I want a cup of instant coffee that doesn’t taste like Juan Valdez pissed in it
I want you to stop pretending I meant nothing and for you to lower your draw bridge and welcome me back inside your Hello Kitty scandalous reprimands
It’s been brought to my attention I leak like a sieve and that’s probably true because I’ve always been full of shit and my holes have always been bigger than the Scotch tape covering them

How about we disappear into a jungle book of our own devising?
The kind of neighborhood where you ask no questions about the bloodstains on the carnivorous walls
Was there ever a time you gave me a second look or was that all fabricated because you were bored and sad from having just lost your dog?

Charles Cicirella