Wednesday, June 26, 2019


I put down the pipe, pick up the Bible and put it in a drawer.
It’s the way it has to be because for God and me to be friends there must be no sub-text existing between us.
Words pour through me like a broken bottle or waterboarded detainee and I wish I could share these feelings with a special someone, but this special someone has checked out a long time ago.

Creativity pushes me toward the sun like a pair of rickety roller skates or a choker on a disobedient Doberman.
The first poem I wrote was about the moon, every poem since  has been about pizza in one form or another.
I wish to be locked in a one room country shack with the voice of a generation and a human even more irascible than myself.
I swear we would take to one another like anchovies to olive oil or a teacher to chalk if only a transom window was open long enough for us both to squeeze through to the other side of morning.

I attempted standing the test of time until I became tired and sat down on Humpty Dumpty’s watch.
Need to fill the dishwasher, turn it on and empty it into oblivion and beyond.
Now I’m thinking about when I was a kid and cutting the grass and how pointless an act of contrition that was.

The pipe is staring up at me with its aluminum foil muzzle tempting me to suck myself into unconsciousness.
I don’t like to smoke until 4:20 because I am a stickler for an OCD plan of disassembly.
Let’s bury the axe in our foreheads and forgive and forget the times we aren’t getting along and passive aggression is our only means to an end.

Charles Cicirella

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