Thursday, August 25, 2016

Word Salad (For Anna Husain)

The words sprang forth
Like they were locked away
In a crypt

The words bring life
To that which was dead
And unwilling to change

Old dogs and new tricks
An oxymoron if ever there
Was one

And this old grizzled dog
Is not willing to evolve
Paralysis has stunted
His growth

The words paraded passed
Like sexy commercials
At a drive-in

The words bring their friends
Because they know there is
Safety in numbers

And I wanted to surprise you
But I ran out of things to say
As my inspiration shifted down

And this young roaring lion
Is not willing to eat crow
Because the feathers always
Stick in his throat

The words tickle my nose
Like Vernors Ginger Soda
Before excess bubbles were

The words are on display
For all to revise, revile and

The words have lost none of
Their spark and will not go
Gentle into that good night.

Charles Cicirella

Friday, August 19, 2016

I love hard salami and that’s not a euphemism for something else. Not that there’s anything wrong with that.

Intimacy and I have never seen eye to eye.
I always discover myself moving away from it when it’s within sight.
After an orgasm it’s all over and cuddling with a significant or insignificant other is not even an option.

Orgasm is French for “little death” and it’s true I do find myself experiencing "the brief loss or weakening of consciousness."
And it’s all over, baby blue as my blue periods become bluer and exclamation points become farther and farther apart.
One sentence leads to the next and when I’m done serving time I promise to put this poem up on the front of the refrigerator so everyone can be proud of the meager accomplishment I’ve accomplished.

And the hard salami, provolone cheese, yellow mustard and white bread explode in my mouth like a symphony of carnage and calypso singing.
And I was never afraid of losing you because I knew you were as lost as I was when we stopped holding hands and crossed the street as strangers.
And an orgasm will fuck you up as your lion roars for as long as it takes to exhaust yourself and sleep for what you pray will only be a temporary death.

Charles Cicirella

Christ the Redeemer

Jews writing about Jesus
What’s that all about?
Are they just covering their bases?
Let’s not forget Christ was a Jew
Let’s also not forget when He rose again
He was still very much a Jew
No matter whose sins he died for
No matter if you like it or not
And the Christians are not the Chosen people
And the Jehovah Witnesses are not the Chosen people
They’re all attempting jump on a train that’s already
Left the station.

And Christ is the Redeemer
Be it in São Paulo or Steubenville
And a saint is a sinner
And a sinner is a saint
And never shall the twain meet
Because if they did this house of cards
Would come crashing down atop our hypocritical heads
And I am still punching away at forty seven years of age
Even if the other poets want nothing to do with me
I’ve never fit in with any subsect of people
It’s just the way the shit floats when you’re irascible
And the time is now for revolt and reclassification.

I’m a Jew
Yes it’s true
According to Jewish Law because my mother is Jewish
I am also one of the chosen
And when Netanyahu is no longer the Prime Minister of Israel
I plan to return to the land of my people
Because Cleveland and me have never seen eye to eye
And if it wasn’t for my lack of making any greenbacks
I’d get away as fast as I possibly can because my redemption
Does not exist in this uninspiring concrete jungle of
Cavaliers and Indians.

I write about Jesus a lot
Just like Leonard and Bob have done on occasion
Because I feel comfortable with this Rabbi, this teacher,
This insurgent who knew how to bring power back to the people
While leaving the powers that be in the unforgiving dust of another
Barren desert landscape.

Charles Cicirella