Wednesday, February 22, 2017

Tenth Poem (Sax Man)

She said his penis was purple.
I’ll never forget that.
Her eyes were full of riverboat captains when she spilled those words onto the long, wooden pier.

I believe he was the first actual photographer I’d ever met.
Loved when he’d have a slideshow in his studio and I’ll never forget the picture of his girlfriend’s breasts in thermal underwear.
Even Jim was impressed with his playing as we got into “Trouble” at DEAD CAT Studio in Columbus, Ohio.

The best acid trips are oftentimes the ones where no acid’s involved.
I always feel like I’m being pushed toward a personal best when we talk on the phone like two insurgents or paisanos.
One time we all went skinny dipping. I’ll never forget Michelle’s eraser sized nipples and how I was told she liked to have them bitten hard.

When looking back at my time at Milo it’s rarely with fondness. Something I find myself still processing like old negatives or memories kept in a trunk from before the war.
There are people from that time though that I’ll always consider close friends no matter if we haven’t spoken in twenty or more years.
Milo was for me a cauldron of outcasts and rapscallions that exists frozen in time like the loneliest of teardrops or unapologetic flames.

Charles Cicirella

Monday, February 20, 2017

Ninth Poem (Pharaoh)

Not thinking about Ann-Margret or Mary Tyler Moore.
Want to hang out with Neko Case. If that’s not too big an order to fill.
Saw her guest host on TMC and it further endeared her to me.

Breaking unleavened bread with an old pornographer not all it’s cracked up to be.
Caught her in Chicago. She was the wolf and I was Little Red Riding Hood.
I don’t believe in pinups because I never know where to drive the spikes in when there’s no open palm.

Leaving things up to chance is for the Hitchcockian birds and I refuse to stay at the Bates Motel because I’ve never been fond of showering with my Eyes Wide Shut.
You want the skinny well then you best do the heavy lifting because I will not wait hand and foot on people who have no clear boundaries and have never read a Crews novel.
I know I’ve dropped a lot of names, but I swear it’s not to show off my smarts. In fact I promise to pick up all of the cultural references I’ve put down once the Dandelion Wine is drunk and this “Ring of Fire” has been permanently laid to rest.

Not thinking about Red Skeleton or Lucille Ball.
Just want to hang out with Neko Case in some dive bar on the outskirts of town.
We could discuss all the ABC Afterschool Specials we watched as kids and how it shaped us into the fucked up people we are right now.

Charles Cicirella

Sunday, February 19, 2017

Eighth Poem (These words will not save me)

These words will not save me.
Not now. Not ever.
And there are no buts about it because even and especially when we find refuge in the shadows another shoe is always waiting to drop like a lead balloon or loaf of stale bread.

These oil fumes will only dampen our mood until we’re silenced by the brilliance of another worthless suicide by our own hand or the hand of a close friend or relative.
When I couldn’t pleasure her she took matters into her own hands. She made sounds I’ll never forgive nor forget as her firm bicycle ass showed me up while driving Dixie down.
It’s the work that matters and only the work. As Internment Camps again become a part of the conversation because we’ll never learn no matter how many times the clock strikes twelve.

I’m sickened by the lack of empathy going on in this supposedly great country of ours.
How is it no one’s catching on that we’ve more than disappeared down a sinkhole as the writing on the wall calls for a timeout and all the players on the field want is more carnage?
We’ve reached an all-time low as the land of the free and the home of the brave becomes the land of the enslaved and home of the cowardly. We’re better than this and need to sooner than later get it through our thick skulls the time for revolt is now before a slippery slope places us all behind barbed wire.

These words. These fucking words are like wet matches we’ll never light as we fumble around in the unscrupulous dark.
If you’re wondering why last call was never called it’s because all the alcohol has already been drunk.
We need to stop tossing around words like patriotism and homeland and ask ourselves why we’re so quick to throw our fellow brothers and sisters under the bus.

Charles Cicirella