Saturday, March 18, 2017

Third Poem (Chuck Berry)

https://www.podomatic.com/podcasts/charlespoet/episodes/2017-03-18T17_27_56-07_00

Fuck
The
White
Noise

I
Want
It
Black
As
Night

Lethal
Dangerous
Sublime
Shenanigans

Waiting
By
The
Railroad
Tracks

You
Snuck
Up
Behind
Me
And
Laid
It
All
Down
Like
Beethoven
Or
A
B-3
Bomber

Now
You’re
Dead
And
I
Am
Sad

In
Three
Days
You’ll
Rise
Again
And
All
The
Kids
Will
Be
Rocking!

Charles Cicirella
3/18/17

Sunday, March 12, 2017

Eighteenth Poem (I could give a shit less what he’s building in there)

https://www.podomatic.com/podcasts/charlespoet/episodes/2017-03-12T20_31_10-07_00

Put down your hammers, nails and industrial piping
Pull out all the stops, the pregnant pauses adding to the suspense and exasperating the less patient in the audience.
I’m not here to hold your hand or tell you everything is going to be alright. In fact I know next to nothing when it comes to soothing the aggrieved or tamping down the fires of shock and outright disbelief.

We celebrate crucifixions like they’re going out of style.
We clamor around a martyrs’ feet like they’re the ones taking all the body blows when truth be told we’re all crying in this or that wilderness or suburban hellhole.
I thought he had all of his ducks in a row. Or that at the very least his cutting wit and well intentioned and funny as hell observations would get him through.

I couldn’t have been more wrong.
I couldn’t have read the situation more incapably and though I’m hardly to blame I still feel the fear of pitchforks raised when another monster is driven from the town square.
Should I have hung onto him at that last Bob show and never let him go?
Would that have saved him from buying a gun and taking his life in that parked car like in a Beatles song?

It’s not a question of where we went right or wrong. Leave that to the sportscasters and pundits to masturbate over when the alt. facts support nothing but another defiled king and his court of sycophants and white supremacists.
I cannot even think about what Jim would have made of what’s now going on. It hurts too much to think of his wry smile and that twinkle in his Peter Pan eyes.
Sometimes late at night I like to think I was his Tinkerbelle and that with a little magic fairy dust sprinkled into his beer I could have saved him from the fate every one of us will suffer, some with bullets others from the unforgiving hands of time.

Charles Cicirella
3/12/17

Saturday, March 04, 2017

Fifteenth Poem (Grasping)

https://www.podomatic.com/podcasts/charlespoet/episodes/2017-03-04T20_37_12-08_00

Grasping at straws like revelatory words.
Camels in a manger.
The baby Jesus a figment of our fevered imaginations.

I imagine lying with her on a bed of straw.
Her Scottish accent wrapped around me like good tidings.
I asked to see a picture of her standing because I must know if we’d fit together and how far we must go before reaching the cloudless shore.

Grasping at stars like otherworldly worlds.
Three Wise Men in a manger.
The baby Jesus performed His first miracle before he even learned to sing.

I imagine sucking on her breasts like a calf suckling his mother’s teat.
There’s no shame in taking nourishment from our ancestors.
We must be brave when entering a dark room with only our third eyes to guide us.

Grasping at invisible signs like infinite numbers.
Mary and Joseph must have had some idea what they were ushering into this world.
The baby Jesus put away childish things and became a man before our storied eyes.

Charles Cicirella
3/4/17