Tuesday, March 05, 2019

Slab of Tofu


The ice tastes like water and the water tastes like shit
Smoking so much pot even the munchies have called in sick
I plan my nights around nausea and reruns of The Good Wife

I’m tired of texting people and hearing only the sound of crickets
Don’t mention pizza and then not show up, that’s just plain cruel
Reaching out to friends only to get repeatedly stabbed in the back is what makes Johnny a serial disbeliever

These days the brass ring is covered in axle grease and promissory notes
Sometimes I get so tired of the broken state of affairs I play hide and seek with my invisible self and go the way of nightshade and DoorDash
Forget the promises you made to me and try and remember the promises you made to yourself

Eating Alka-Seltzer® ReliefChews like they’re going out of style because my stomach has something to say and I’ve become hard of hearing
I told Pipi if she didn’t start ignoring me I’d pull her braids and give her a swift kick in her pantaloons
The reason everything feels wonky is because we have a weak President who refuses to listen to anyone, but his authoritative demons

The water from the tap is obnoxious and lacks depth, but buying bottled water has never made any sense to me
Let’s stop pretending we’re not heading toward a Mad Max world where up is down and the Jewish people better watch their backs
I plan my days around chronic masturbation and reruns of Lost in Space

Charles Cicirella

Wednesday, February 20, 2019

“POWER TO THE HAW” (For Julia)


Soaking up your moisture
I know you are wet
By the Titanic look in your kosher ham and cage-free eyes

There’s no desperation in your DNA and why would there be
When you’ve always tested drug free and still believe in magic
I swear I once witnessed unicorns gallop out of your perfect tuchus

The portrait of you is American Gothic after a walk on the wild side of self -determination and self-empowerment
It’s raw like an unlicked postage stamp and the power of the purse is everything it’s cracked up to be with a slice of pie thrown in for good measure
I’m always torn between the banana cream and coconut cream and I wish someone would join the two together so my divided loyalties could finally be reunited

Steering into the flesh strokes of your portrait extraordinaire I admire the painter for their rude genius and how it interrupts your self-loathing in volcanic cracks of rod and switch
It’s a dreamscape of fever and slave driver faded out as political correctness attempts to erase our tortured oxymoron selves
I refuse to hang out with anyone, these days, unless they’ve seen both Annie Hall and Rosemary’s Baby

Charles Cicirella

Tuesday, February 19, 2019

There’s no pretending in a world of Monday’s. (For Kat)


We’re all slaves to time even though time doesn’t know we exist.
She made friends with Sisyphus and then the boulder was her only concern.
Feeling zeal over the big ticket items while the smallest of the small slips between the cracks and is reflected by a roomful of mirrors.

Plodding through the mystery of why we exist is such a heavy slog especially when philosophy has never interested us in the least little bit and our crisis body shames us before we’re even hallway through our victim statement.
The police told me there’s no use pretending the culprit would be caught because criminals will be criminals and life intentionally cracks us up.
My glass has always been shattered like at some Jewish wedding or bank robbery where the takeaway isn’t ass or grass, but instead our own unremarkable lives.

I so badly wanted to trade punches with the champ, but he was out for repairs so I settled for the next best thing and shot Groucho Marx in my chicken pajamas.
Poetry doesn’t leave you in the lurch neither does suicide if you do it right the first time.
I was so hopped up on the next big thing I forgot about all the shit that I was once so over the moon about and nothing stays charged forever and everything remains in lockstep and locked down in a perpetual downward spiral of flop sweat.

My father once informed me, I was a survivor and that kept me going for about a decade until I ran out of gas and a sense of humor in San Francisco on Cleveland Avenue.
The band I was traveling with had had enough of me and my obtuse strangulations and before you know it they rubbed me out like a tombstone that just wanted to disappear into the Birds Eye frozen ground.
The peek-show dancer wasn’t interested in my excuses for not having correct change as she closed her window and left me holding my blue balls and Sharpie Fine Permanent Marker.

We’re all slaves to Father Time and his family of vulture capitalists.
She made friends with the music in her head because she was convinced it was the only way to stay in touch with the fire in her belly.
The status quo just another last ditch reminder that being human isn’t all it’s cracked up to be when even Mother Nature has turned her benevolent back on us.

Charles Cicirella

Saturday, February 16, 2019

Experience Ecstasy (For Kat)

I follow the fire as it lights the herb
Carries me away to a la carte skies
Words like silent Harold Lloyds thrill with their sequenced autonomy

This valentine chose you, not the other way around, so you needn’t worry about the backlash
Ordered a brownie earlier and I’m still anticipating the perfect moment to visit it with my mouth, teeth and tongue
You’re the only acrobat I’ve ever witnessed fly through the air who I believed would land safe and sound in their own bed

Going to the circus isn’t what it was once cracked up to be
Even when I was a child all I can remember is the fear a clown would break loose and force me to have a good time
I wasn’t at Woodstock, but if I had been I would have told that young girl to put her top back on

Experiencing ecstasy keeps you on your toes as the music drowns out the meaning and hidden agendas go the way of metered immigrants
I’ve had enough of America the beautiful becoming America the malignant
The very second he became President standards were eradicated and rage became an acceptable tool in our toolbox to wipeout communication and build unnecessary walls

I followed her fire as she got in bed and we snuggled together like two mad scientists in search of their next major discovery
She always graded me on a curve which kept me looking swell in both of our brownie batter eyes
Standing over the kitchen sick, choking on smoke and dreams never quite reconciled

Charles Cicirella

Sunday, February 10, 2019

Carving Station


I carved the steak effortlessly
blood pooling, essence pooling
grease junkie, frothing at mouth
burning in an overdose seizure

Jason Baldinger / Charles Cicirella