Friday, October 21, 2016


Lost in the wetness of your Bob Newhart eyes
I think this poem is for you, but am choosing to keep that information to myself
I’ve written some poetry for Darin Bulai, but he never seemed all that impressed so I moved on.
Never forget Detroit and how I made you cry in the bus station. I had a copy of a Fats Domino biography under my arm. The irony was lost on me until now.

Lost in the GPS coordinates of your open border thighs.
The bridge cost fifteen bucks, but sometimes you just have to grin and have someone else pay the money grubbing reaper.
Walking around Chinatown I felt truly insignificant and I liked it. Being American only got you the hard sell.
The hand-pulled noodles made a fool out of me and the pork is the best thing I’ve ever had in my mouth.

My poetry is like a raccoon in that it’s always wearing a mask and has small hands to get inside your trash cans.
I’ll never forget when you served up my head on that silver or was it a gold platter and how you danced like Salome right out of the cinematic frame.
I believe Leonard’s idea of a really good bowel movement has to do with sublime catharsis and the dying of a howling generation of low information invalids.
I have a headache, but that’s not news. The blood red caplets don’t seem to be doing the trick and getting my hands on anything stronger never seems to go my way.

Lost in the hotcakes, sausage and maple syrup of your bursting Mary Tyler Moore smile.
I thought this poem was for you, but now I’m really not sure.
I’ve written poetry for so many people it’s hard to keep track. Let’s just say I’ve taken alienation to a whole other level.
Never forget walking up the stairs behind you at King Books and as I looked at your butt in those blue corduroys thinking I’d never again see you naked and it made me sad then and still makes me sad now.

Charles Cicirella

Rainbow Sprinkles

Wearing a plaid skirt
Keeps me on my toes with fashion and manmade resistance
I couldn’t stop looking at her midsection
I’m funny that way

Always had a thing for librarians ever since I first rode to the library on my yellow ten speed Free Spirit
I remember the Wizard of Oz tome and how the library then and now represented a world I always look forward to getting lost in
There’s infinite wonder and an eternity of spectral surprises and Julie she represents the most exceptional and exquisite tastes of a humanity always inquisitive and on the mark
It’s time we broke open our Dalinian hearts and lost ourselves in the milk of the Savior

Wearing my heart on my sleeve
I couldn’t help but notice she wasn’t paying attention to me
There’s something about her that reminds me of the Peanuts and especially Peppermint Patti
I couldn’t get enough of their cartoons as my cousin Lori and I would trudge back and forth from the library with another armful of their Sunday funnies

Been eating butterscotch sundaes as of late with whipped cream, nuts and rainbow sprinkles
I warm the butterscotch up in the microwave so when it hits the vanilla ice-cream a soup starts to form as I go to town on this delicious and decadent verboten treat
We broke bread together as they served us pigeon and called it fried chicken right before I got up to feature for the first time in Cleveland in fifteen years or more
Having Julie in the audience made that night even more special as I read my heart out and pulled no punches as I pushed the river and said Geronimo.

Charles Cicirella

Tuesday, October 11, 2016

Twinsburg, Ohio (For Julie)

I want you in fits and starts.
Want you in pitters and pats.
This isn’t a confession or even a manifesto.
Just something I needed to get off my chest.

I want to speed up and slow down with you.
Want to go the distance and stop short on a long pier while we pretend we don’t recognize each others inner children.
There’s nothing I would prefer more than to have a play date with you and your wiener dog.
The poetry keeps us slim and ready to fight the noxious melancholia of another good morning.
In a dream I am sopping up gravy with an invisible piece of Wonder Bread as I do my best to come to terms with what it means to get lost in the stacks with you.
The books like sentries guard us as we explore the outer reaches of a landscape drawn and quartered by one more miserable son of a bitch.
You whispered into my stir fried ears how very much you enjoyed my understated company as the Doors reminded us just how far we’d wandered off course.
Just received a text that felt like you were backing away which I can understand because the place where I live is not comprised of fairy tales or weasels that go pop in an undulating night of frozen pea promises and sticky marshmallow regrets.

I want you to break open my head like a passive aggressive piƱata hell-bent on world domination.
Want you to push me over the White Cliffs of Dover with your champagne eyes and murder mystery mouth.  
This isn’t a story about the one that got away or even a nursery rhyme about the terminally cheerful who always fail before finally sinking one hole in one after another.
Just something I wanted to share with you before all the beer has been drunk and the bartender calls last call.

Charles Cicirella