Siri

Mystery

Mysterious

Mischievous

Ancient

New soul

Expert witness

We pop

Crackle

Snap

Dancer

Electric

Brain food

I am

We are

United

Whimsical

Capricious

Perfect catch

Long distance runner

Star sprinter

Meerkat purring

Basking in the sun

I’ve swallowed the moon

Promised Land beckons...

Charles Eric Cicirella

12/16/13

Resurgence

why can’t they hear it

are they deaf? blind?

why are so many

resistant to change?

I love the seasons you

pass through like a

private investigator

rummaging through

old steamer trunks

looking for a phone

number that was

written on the back

of a matchstick

I remember Casablanca

Bob and I remember

Dooley Wilson singing,

singing for you like

you were Humphrey Bogart

I know you wanted to be him

stranded in some petrified forest

making time with the waitresses

like they actually understood you

and knew what it meant to be a legend

and not give a shit

you have always told us where

it was at and you still are telling us

why it is important to take a stand

because it’s not dark yet, but it’s

getting there and I’m afraid to let go

Bob I’m afraid you won’t remember

how we sheltered each other from the

impossible storms in both our imaginative

and poetic visions; how we both agreed

Vincent knew what he was up against

and that if he hadn’t taken his life we would

not be as acquainted with our own desires nor

would we give so much of a damn

the paint pulls us in as we turn our backs on

pressure cooker romance and all the self-medicated

responses she attempted before I convinced her

it’s no good being a victim when your back is

up against the wall anyhow and anyway you

slice it you are still going to have to enter the

eye of the storm before it is too late and all

the usual suspects are rounded up and later

dispensed with because every one of them

had a foolproof alibi, everyone but you Bob

your alibi was almost unbelievable in all its

deliberate and desperate fury

I wish we could shield each other from contempt

and I wish so much more was understood without

words or gestures of faith that faithless pedestrians

move through like ghosts with no fixed destination …

Charles Cicirella 5.6.03 (For Bob Dylan)

DYLAN

I was fourteen years old

Had an old beat up vinyl copy

Of Highway 61 Revisited from the library

I can remember the first time I attempted

Playing it and how the foreign sounds pouring

From the speakers pushed me down

Beneath subterranean landscapes

Six months later I revisited that same copy of

Highway 61 now long over-due, this time though

The foreign sounds did not seem so foreign

Matter a’ fact it was the only thing I discovered

Myself relating to

From this moment on nothing has spoken louder

Or clearer or truer, from this moment on The Doors

And The Beatles just would not do

I needed an edge that could redefine my boundaries

I sought an oblivion that desired to be consumed

And a sharp intellect that left phonies Blowin’ In The

Wind

Dylan opened a door to my subconscious long boarded

Up by the mongrel dogs who teach and this “Equality,”

He spoke of I did not need to completely comprehend

Because he has this revolutionary way of

Bringing it all back home

These days when I discover myself seeking solace or communion

Or whatever gets me through the night, these days when nothing

Makes much sense I turn toward his voice and the compassion

And joy made real by this myth, and this song and dance man.

Charles Cicirella 3:01 PM 5.22.2002

Commissioned by Ron House to be read at Used Kid’s Records

For Bob Dylan’s 61rst. B-Day!