I cannot be trusted.

http://charlespoet.podomatic.com/entry/2016-08-31T14_21_00-07_00

While in the fetal position

I strangled my inner child.

I put my hands around its

Insufferable neck and choked

The life out of’ its crying jag

Of a little body.

And I know you never trusted me,

I knew it right from the very start.

It had everything to do with the

Way you looked at me so ruefully

Like I was a puzzle you could not

Quite figure out.

I’ve never been able to stomach the

Academic sludge passed off as poetry

Because words are more than just a way

To pad your low self-esteem. I’ve had it

Up to here with the posers who don’t understand

That suffering is not an art form and martyrdom

Is not a well-honed skill like karate or belly dancing.

My inner child kept telling me everything would be

Alright when nothing could have been further from

The God stained, bloody stool truth. And you didn’t

Help matters when you pretended a connection existed

When nothing but lies and more lies were present when

We spooned like two cartoon mutts.

I cannot be trusted. It’s been that way since being born in a fog of war.

And yes it’s true I’ve become that old man yelling at the neighborhood kids

To get off his lawn because I’ve become addicted to swallowing bitter pills.

And have grown tired of this game of denial I continue playing like Russian

Roulette except I’m not Johnny Ace and the bullets refuse to exit the chamber

And blow my brains all over the eggshell colored walls.

Charles Cicirella

8/22/16

Word Salad (For Anna Husain)

http://charlespoet.podomatic.com/entry/2016-08-25T11_54_26-07_00

The words sprang forth

Like they were locked away

In a crypt

The words bring life

To that which was dead

And unwilling to change

Old dogs and new tricks

An oxymoron if ever there

Was one

And this old grizzled dog

Is not willing to evolve

Paralysis has stunted

His growth

The words paraded passed

Like sexy commercials

At a drive-in

The words bring their friends

Because they know there is

Safety in numbers

And I wanted to surprise you

But I ran out of things to say

As my inspiration shifted down

And this young roaring lion

Is not willing to eat crow

Because the feathers always

Stick in his throat

The words tickle my nose

Like Vernors Ginger Soda

Before excess bubbles were

Censored

The words are on display

For all to revise, revile and

Repute

The words have lost none of

Their spark and will not go

Gentle into that good night.

Charles Cicirella

8/25/16

I love hard salami and that’s not a euphemism for something else. Not that there’s anything wrong with that.

http://charlespoet.podomatic.com/entry/2016-08-19T19_27_12-07_00

Intimacy and I have never seen eye to eye.

I always discover myself moving away from it when it’s within sight.

After an orgasm it’s all over and cuddling with a significant or insignificant other is not even an option.

Orgasm is French for “little death” and it’s true I do find myself experiencing "the brief loss or weakening of consciousness."

And it’s all over, baby blue as my blue periods become bluer and exclamation points become farther and farther apart.

One sentence leads to the next and when I’m done serving time I promise to put this poem up on the front of the refrigerator so everyone can be proud of the meager accomplishment I’ve accomplished.

And the hard salami, provolone cheese, yellow mustard and white bread explode in my mouth like a symphony of carnage and calypso singing.

And I was never afraid of losing you because I knew you were as lost as I was when we stopped holding hands and crossed the street as strangers.

And an orgasm will fuck you up as your lion roars for as long as it takes to exhaust yourself and sleep for what you pray will only be a temporary death.

Charles Cicirella

8/6/16