Silas
Saturday, October 28, 2006
Why Are We Here? By Joni Soule
Why are we here? Nothing clear
logical thinking is not clear
neither is chaos
Dying To Live (for Joni Soule)
Dying To Live
(for Joni Soule)
Radically human
Non specific
Imperfectly perfect
There is a holocaust occurring in her brain
If you cut open one of her paintings it would bleed.
Some of us hang on through hollow prayer and demolished hope
Many of us prefer to stay isolated in a pine box of our own devising
When she stands before the canvas it’s as if she is constructing her
Very own shrine to invisible fairies who believe in a very real God.
It’s better that people don’t get us
It’s better people don’t stretch their brains or get back
In touch with their heart stems because paradise like this
Can not be visited too often before becoming accustomed
To this special brand of pain and suffering designed to lull
You out of unconsciousness before numbing you for good.
She is dying to live; heard it the first time I experienced
Her non-performance it was at a coffeehouse during the Victorian
Age, I was Joan of Arc to her burning stake. She lit me on fire
From the inside out and before I knew what had hit me I was
Swimming in blood and channeling more obscure ghosts.
Her painting takes her down from a pedestal
Her paintings prove Saints exist in this day and age
To make a sacrifice we must first disconnect from the
World at large, to make a difference we must learn to
Love the inner child burning inside each and everyone
Of us.
Charlie Cicirella October 28, 2006
Radically human
Non specific
Imperfectly perfect
There is a holocaust occurring in her brain
If you cut open one of her paintings it would bleed.
Some of us hang on through hollow prayer and demolished hope
Many of us prefer to stay isolated in a pine box of our own devising
When she stands before the canvas it’s as if she is constructing her
Very own shrine to invisible fairies who believe in a very real God.
It’s better that people don’t get us
It’s better people don’t stretch their brains or get back
In touch with their heart stems because paradise like this
Can not be visited too often before becoming accustomed
To this special brand of pain and suffering designed to lull
You out of unconsciousness before numbing you for good.
She is dying to live; heard it the first time I experienced
Her non-performance it was at a coffeehouse during the Victorian
Age, I was Joan of Arc to her burning stake. She lit me on fire
From the inside out and before I knew what had hit me I was
Swimming in blood and channeling more obscure ghosts.
Her painting takes her down from a pedestal
Her paintings prove Saints exist in this day and age
To make a sacrifice we must first disconnect from the
World at large, to make a difference we must learn to
Love the inner child burning inside each and everyone
Of us.
Charlie Cicirella October 28, 2006
Thursday, October 12, 2006
GHOSTS 2006 (for Jim Volk and Albert Ayler)
Ghosts 2006
I am talking – do you can you hear me talking – I hear your fingers grasping plucking moaning against the strings – your index finger and thumb resting no more – there is a sacrifice - there is a new set of rules – everything disintegrates – rots – finds a new message – new purpose – the monkey swings from branch to branch – the monkey another mechanic – another sacred being tuning up the cosmos with its special brand of medicine – I am writing – do you see me writing – I see your wiggly digits wiggling to and fro – respect life do not hold hands with the undertaker’s daughter – don’t get in the pool until your food is completely digested – respect death do not spurn the advances of another rotting human – this music a prayer for both the living and the dead – this music comforts us – this music praises us – this music pours us a drink and tells us unspecific truths – I’ve lost my compass – my ground zero compromised – I’m aching from being punched in the stomach a thousand or more times…
Charles Cicirella
I am talking – do you can you hear me talking – I hear your fingers grasping plucking moaning against the strings – your index finger and thumb resting no more – there is a sacrifice - there is a new set of rules – everything disintegrates – rots – finds a new message – new purpose – the monkey swings from branch to branch – the monkey another mechanic – another sacred being tuning up the cosmos with its special brand of medicine – I am writing – do you see me writing – I see your wiggly digits wiggling to and fro – respect life do not hold hands with the undertaker’s daughter – don’t get in the pool until your food is completely digested – respect death do not spurn the advances of another rotting human – this music a prayer for both the living and the dead – this music comforts us – this music praises us – this music pours us a drink and tells us unspecific truths – I’ve lost my compass – my ground zero compromised – I’m aching from being punched in the stomach a thousand or more times…
Charles Cicirella
Tuesday, October 10, 2006
blather
Shall I cradle this nearly sleeping child in my supposedly humane arms? How can we judge this or that injustice so callously? Am I a monster or a saint and does it matter in the living and or dying end? I met St. Peter at a “meeting” he kept playing hard to get. You are never supposed to ask if He was hot or cold to the touch. Suppose to play it all cool when one of the disciples graces your presence with their nonchalant grace. Shall I go out on Highway 61 and find another nearly sacrificed child to call my very own? I’m not joshing I’ve got a loaded gun and I’m not afraid to use it. I’m not kidding I have a mouth filled with biting remarks and a sardonic sense of dispossessed humor I’m willing to spill onto you like the newest hippest rot. Shall we cradle this unkempt civilization in our bored bosom and pray for sunny skies or should we just call it quits right now? Shall I tell you I love you for the millionth time and hope that you still find some truth in it?
Charles Cicirella
Shall I cradle this nearly sleeping child in my supposedly humane arms? How can we judge this or that injustice so callously? Am I a monster or a saint and does it matter in the living and or dying end? I met St. Peter at a “meeting” he kept playing hard to get. You are never supposed to ask if He was hot or cold to the touch. Suppose to play it all cool when one of the disciples graces your presence with their nonchalant grace. Shall I go out on Highway 61 and find another nearly sacrificed child to call my very own? I’m not joshing I’ve got a loaded gun and I’m not afraid to use it. I’m not kidding I have a mouth filled with biting remarks and a sardonic sense of dispossessed humor I’m willing to spill onto you like the newest hippest rot. Shall we cradle this unkempt civilization in our bored bosom and pray for sunny skies or should we just call it quits right now? Shall I tell you I love you for the millionth time and hope that you still find some truth in it?
Charles Cicirella
Sunday, October 01, 2006
Night and Day
Night and Day
I’m not afraid of the dark
It has no secrets to project
I am a prospector of the light
We hold hands
We must hold on
Even when our hands do not
Fear is the devil’s tool
The devil is not a ghost
Love defeats evil
Words go through my heart
My gut instincts right every wrong
I am a guardian of future lives
My life God’s tool
My life a living prayer
Love begets Love
Hold On
Charlie
I’m not afraid of the dark
It has no secrets to project
I am a prospector of the light
We hold hands
We must hold on
Even when our hands do not
Fear is the devil’s tool
The devil is not a ghost
Love defeats evil
Words go through my heart
My gut instincts right every wrong
I am a guardian of future lives
My life God’s tool
My life a living prayer
Love begets Love
Hold On
Charlie
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