http://charlespoet.podomatic.com/entry/2015-06-21T19_14_06-07_00
I spoke to Darin Bulai on the phone and it’s the first time in a long time that I found someone finishing my sentences and it filled me with hope that creative collisions can still very much exist in this land of the enslaved and home of the cowardly.
I spoke to Darin Bulai on the phone and there were a number of times we interrupted each another, but it was okay because I knew we were both just so overjoyed to be holding a conversation that actually got our juices flowing and didn’t have us feeling like it was time to swallow the barrel of a gun and splatter our brains on the eggshell colored walls.
I spoke to Darin Bulai on the phone and discovered that it’s true if you build it they will come and they’ll bring good ideas and food and drink so no one goes hungry or is thirsty as the sustenance from our minds' eye leaks out and we drown in each other’s creative highs and lows.
I do not have a clue if either one of us can indeed write, but I do not believe that is the point.
He spoke of affectation and I immediately understood where he was coming from and that he is the most unaffected human being I’ve ever come into contact with.
And so what if neither one of us is working and what’s it to you if we’re both living with a parent and doing our best to stay hidden in plain view because the alternatives are less sexy and filled to the brim with unwarranted social convention and recovery scenarios that do not fit the bill.
I found the blueprints in my back pocket along with my cell phone that is probably giving me rectal cancer and some lint left over from 1972.
I found you on FB of all places amid so much endless chatter and inane postings I could give a shit less about. Your writing stung me like a yellow jacket as I rushed myself to the ER and confessed to anyone who would listen that I’m allergic to the beautiful people and all of their egregious trappings and trapdoor ridicule.
The sound of the creaking weathervane woke me up from a relatively sound forty winks as I sit here on the floor, bent over the keys knowing we’ll find our place in the stars once we stop looking for our breaks and accept we’ve already arrived.
Charles Eric Cicirella
6/21/15
Sunday, June 21, 2015
I believe it’s time we saw each other naked.
http://charlespoet.podomatic.com/entry/2015-06-21T13_49_45-07_00
Come here.
I need to lower my guard and leave it down for a really long time.
I want to feel your body pressed against mine as Brautigan’s words slide down the bannister into our hungry and unshielded hearts.
Come here.
My mind is made up it’s time I hightailed it to Maryland and met you outside in the tall grass where we can hide from everyone except each other as it should be.
When I think of you new lines of poetry come into my head and I know it’s the same for you.
I just grabbed my nose and it reminded me of when I was a child and my grandfather would grab my nose and make quarters come out of it.
We’re all magicians in our own way making the things in our lives that we cannot comprehend disappear.
Denial has become a trusted ally as I do my very best to accept the isolation as an opportunity to actually do something with my life and this creativity as a hammer smashing through all the white noise.
Come here.
It’s time we grabbed hold of each other and stopped pretending we don’t feel injured when things don’t go our way and there’s nothing we can do about it.
I need to feel more than just your intellectual prowess as your mouth opens upon mine and our inner children share the same swing and we walk naked through Death Valley with the hot sun beating down on our poetic flesh.
Charles Cicirella
6/20/15
Come here.
I need to lower my guard and leave it down for a really long time.
I want to feel your body pressed against mine as Brautigan’s words slide down the bannister into our hungry and unshielded hearts.
Come here.
My mind is made up it’s time I hightailed it to Maryland and met you outside in the tall grass where we can hide from everyone except each other as it should be.
When I think of you new lines of poetry come into my head and I know it’s the same for you.
I just grabbed my nose and it reminded me of when I was a child and my grandfather would grab my nose and make quarters come out of it.
We’re all magicians in our own way making the things in our lives that we cannot comprehend disappear.
Denial has become a trusted ally as I do my very best to accept the isolation as an opportunity to actually do something with my life and this creativity as a hammer smashing through all the white noise.
Come here.
It’s time we grabbed hold of each other and stopped pretending we don’t feel injured when things don’t go our way and there’s nothing we can do about it.
I need to feel more than just your intellectual prowess as your mouth opens upon mine and our inner children share the same swing and we walk naked through Death Valley with the hot sun beating down on our poetic flesh.
Charles Cicirella
6/20/15
Saturday, June 20, 2015
Heavy Lifting
http://charlespoet.podomatic.com/entry/2015-06-20T12_49_36-07_00
Pick up your heart from the floor.
It’s time you learned to read the writing on the wall.
It’s time we started to heal our insatiable wounds.
Nine lives were lost in that church.
Nine lives that will never breathe another breath.
It’s not enough to express our sympathy. It’s not hardly enough saying we’re sorry for your loss.
When did we stop doing the heavy lifting?
When did we give the people with no brains in their head a free pass to blow up our world with their fear and their hatred and their ignorance?
America the beautiful must again find its place in the sun and stop accepting mediocre as a job well done.
Pick up your brains from the stone cold floor.
Some people don’t get a second chance and fairy tales only tell half the story.
Politics as usual is no longer an acceptable defense. We know damn well what the right thing is to do and we better start asking ourselves immediately why we’re not doing it.
Charles Cicirella
6/20/15
Pick up your heart from the floor.
It’s time you learned to read the writing on the wall.
It’s time we started to heal our insatiable wounds.
Nine lives were lost in that church.
Nine lives that will never breathe another breath.
It’s not enough to express our sympathy. It’s not hardly enough saying we’re sorry for your loss.
When did we stop doing the heavy lifting?
When did we give the people with no brains in their head a free pass to blow up our world with their fear and their hatred and their ignorance?
America the beautiful must again find its place in the sun and stop accepting mediocre as a job well done.
Pick up your brains from the stone cold floor.
Some people don’t get a second chance and fairy tales only tell half the story.
Politics as usual is no longer an acceptable defense. We know damn well what the right thing is to do and we better start asking ourselves immediately why we’re not doing it.
Charles Cicirella
6/20/15
Thursday, June 18, 2015
Creaky Bones
Choking on a fingernail for the past couple of hours.
As I stirred sugar into my coffee this morning I started to think about my creaky bones.
I’m tired of how some people bring God into everything. Like it or not though God is right there with us every step of the way and thankfully there is nothing that can be done about that.
Lou Donaldson’s “Autumn Nocturne” is playing and even though it’s only June this music perfectly fits my mood and carries me through the Chariots of Fire thunderstorms I’m currently experiencing.
Ian and Sylvia is up next and that’s sure to put me in an entirely different frame of mind.
My creaky bones are ready to cut a rug even though I have next to no rhythm and look more like the gopher from Caddyshack than Fred Astaire when I "Shake a Tail Feather.”
I would like to continue where we left off, but have this uncomfortable feeling that you were never really all that into me and would prefer to cut your losses before our relationship becomes a knife fight that no one walks away from.
Domestic abuse is never sexy especially when the police get involved and someone gets led away in handcuffs
At any moment my creaky bones might just stage an uprising and before you know it I’ll vanish like some aging puff of smoke that had no business being here in the first place.
Charles Cicirella
6/18/15
As I stirred sugar into my coffee this morning I started to think about my creaky bones.
I’m tired of how some people bring God into everything. Like it or not though God is right there with us every step of the way and thankfully there is nothing that can be done about that.
Lou Donaldson’s “Autumn Nocturne” is playing and even though it’s only June this music perfectly fits my mood and carries me through the Chariots of Fire thunderstorms I’m currently experiencing.
Ian and Sylvia is up next and that’s sure to put me in an entirely different frame of mind.
My creaky bones are ready to cut a rug even though I have next to no rhythm and look more like the gopher from Caddyshack than Fred Astaire when I "Shake a Tail Feather.”
I would like to continue where we left off, but have this uncomfortable feeling that you were never really all that into me and would prefer to cut your losses before our relationship becomes a knife fight that no one walks away from.
Domestic abuse is never sexy especially when the police get involved and someone gets led away in handcuffs
At any moment my creaky bones might just stage an uprising and before you know it I’ll vanish like some aging puff of smoke that had no business being here in the first place.
Charles Cicirella
6/18/15
Tuesday, June 16, 2015
Frame of Mood
http://charlespoet.podomatic.com/entry/2015-06-16T20_50_28-07_00
I’m not writing this poem out of desperation.
I’m not writing this poem out of loneliness or contempt.
I cannot believe we found each other.
I’m at a loss for words as my frame of mood is unframed by your passionate whispered longings.
Move over I want to sit next to you on the park bench.
Move over I want to feel your warmth as we feed the pigeons and forget we’ve not eaten since before Christ was a Prophet never a pretender.
I believe it’s time we give these shallow celebrity poets a run for their blue money by delivering unto them the unleavened creativity of a people chosen to do the work because the work was worn-out from being left half done and half baked.
Move over I want to stand with you alongside the burning bush leaving nothing any longer to chance as we break the speed of sound by simply opening our eyes to the next new sunrise.
I’m not writing this poem because I have anything to say.
I’m not writing this poem out of a sense of duty or a feeling that someone needs to break open the silences with profound insights or riveting reveals.
I’m just tired of everyone, including myself, skirting the issues and understand there is much more work to be done before a reckoning can arrive and a people are delivered to the Promise Land
You were walking your dog when you called. As we talked I imagined your hands all over my body making me feel like I wasn’t a filthy, smelly human being, but was instead a blossoming flower with so much promise and so much still to look forward to.
Charles Cicirella
6/16/15
I’m not writing this poem out of desperation.
I’m not writing this poem out of loneliness or contempt.
I cannot believe we found each other.
I’m at a loss for words as my frame of mood is unframed by your passionate whispered longings.
Move over I want to sit next to you on the park bench.
Move over I want to feel your warmth as we feed the pigeons and forget we’ve not eaten since before Christ was a Prophet never a pretender.
I believe it’s time we give these shallow celebrity poets a run for their blue money by delivering unto them the unleavened creativity of a people chosen to do the work because the work was worn-out from being left half done and half baked.
Move over I want to stand with you alongside the burning bush leaving nothing any longer to chance as we break the speed of sound by simply opening our eyes to the next new sunrise.
I’m not writing this poem because I have anything to say.
I’m not writing this poem out of a sense of duty or a feeling that someone needs to break open the silences with profound insights or riveting reveals.
I’m just tired of everyone, including myself, skirting the issues and understand there is much more work to be done before a reckoning can arrive and a people are delivered to the Promise Land
You were walking your dog when you called. As we talked I imagined your hands all over my body making me feel like I wasn’t a filthy, smelly human being, but was instead a blossoming flower with so much promise and so much still to look forward to.
Charles Cicirella
6/16/15
Friday, June 12, 2015
Our Craven Inability to Believe In Ourselves
http://charlespoet.podomatic.com/entry/2015-06-12T14_26_52-07_00
She has no reason to worry because I’m not going anyplace.
I still want her in big and small ways. Nothing has changed. I just sometimes need a break from staring at the computer’s frozen face.
And it’s incredible how we both jump to the same troubling conclusions because we’re not used to anyone really being into us and going the extra mile for us.
I want to put my arms around her like the sun and quiet her worries that I’ve found someone else to smear my words all over like sunscreen or whipped cream.
The words pour from me like a fire hydrant in Brooklyn in the 1970’s. This was when the prostitute was New York's state bird and you could pick up any drug on any corner for a relatively low price.
This was way before political correctness bit us in the ass and the Christian right took us hostage with their narrow minded views on everything and anything under the sun. I want to live my life on my own terms and not have to always worry about the next shoe to drop especially when I’ve been going barefoot since before the serpent penetrated Eve for the final time.
Make way I’m coming and I’m bringing buttery popcorn and ice-cream and chocolate and all of those things you love to nosh on but can’t because of your diet.
She doesn’t have to worry about me leaving the building because I’ve been a shut-in since before I can even remember. Solitary confinement means nothing to me not since discovering how vast a kingdom my mind is.
And it’s truly amazing how we both suffer from low self-esteem. It makes sense though when physical intimacy is something neither one of us has experienced in more than a coon’s age. And we’re both getting older. And we’re both getting wiser. And we’re both getting lonelier.
I want her to put both her arms around me like I am the moon and this nursery rhyme will come to fruition once we let go of all those pesky voices in our butterfly hearts and cement block heads.
Charles Cicirella
6/12/15
She has no reason to worry because I’m not going anyplace.
I still want her in big and small ways. Nothing has changed. I just sometimes need a break from staring at the computer’s frozen face.
And it’s incredible how we both jump to the same troubling conclusions because we’re not used to anyone really being into us and going the extra mile for us.
I want to put my arms around her like the sun and quiet her worries that I’ve found someone else to smear my words all over like sunscreen or whipped cream.
The words pour from me like a fire hydrant in Brooklyn in the 1970’s. This was when the prostitute was New York's state bird and you could pick up any drug on any corner for a relatively low price.
This was way before political correctness bit us in the ass and the Christian right took us hostage with their narrow minded views on everything and anything under the sun. I want to live my life on my own terms and not have to always worry about the next shoe to drop especially when I’ve been going barefoot since before the serpent penetrated Eve for the final time.
Make way I’m coming and I’m bringing buttery popcorn and ice-cream and chocolate and all of those things you love to nosh on but can’t because of your diet.
She doesn’t have to worry about me leaving the building because I’ve been a shut-in since before I can even remember. Solitary confinement means nothing to me not since discovering how vast a kingdom my mind is.
And it’s truly amazing how we both suffer from low self-esteem. It makes sense though when physical intimacy is something neither one of us has experienced in more than a coon’s age. And we’re both getting older. And we’re both getting wiser. And we’re both getting lonelier.
I want her to put both her arms around me like I am the moon and this nursery rhyme will come to fruition once we let go of all those pesky voices in our butterfly hearts and cement block heads.
Charles Cicirella
6/12/15
Niagara Falls
(For Dan Klute)
http://charlespoet.podomatic.com/entry/2015-06-12T13_27_24-07_00
I drink so very little water I’m pissing caffeine.
I promised in another recent poem I’d cease and desist from writing about my bodily functions and yet here I go again.
My friend Dan understands and that is why I’m dedicating this poem to him.
Water and I do not get along which is totally crazy when the average adult human body is 50-65% water.
Here’s another bizzaro fact. I am a water sign and yet do not know how to swim. In fact to be perfectly honest I’m afraid of water especially the deep end.
Sometimes when we’re hanging out I think it would be easier climbing into a barrel and getting pushed over Niagara Falls. Neither one of us is a walk in the park and that’s putting it mildly, but it’s also a key component to why, I believe, it is we both keep coming back for more.
I drink so very little water the sweat pouring from my glands is comprised of mostly Coca-Cola.
I understand California is experiencing an epic drought to which I can completely relate to. Their golf courses though are still green because recreation always seems to take precedent over salvation no matter how poorly you slice the ball into the burning woods.
My friend Dan gets what I’m saying and drinks a glass of water every chance he gets. He’s as smart as a whip and delivers the genuine goods without batting an eye. Me I’m still as dry as a bone and wish somebody I loved would hold me under the water just for the sake of getting wet and saving myself from dry rot.
Charles Cicirella
6/11/15
http://charlespoet.podomatic.com/entry/2015-06-12T13_27_24-07_00
I drink so very little water I’m pissing caffeine.
I promised in another recent poem I’d cease and desist from writing about my bodily functions and yet here I go again.
My friend Dan understands and that is why I’m dedicating this poem to him.
Water and I do not get along which is totally crazy when the average adult human body is 50-65% water.
Here’s another bizzaro fact. I am a water sign and yet do not know how to swim. In fact to be perfectly honest I’m afraid of water especially the deep end.
Sometimes when we’re hanging out I think it would be easier climbing into a barrel and getting pushed over Niagara Falls. Neither one of us is a walk in the park and that’s putting it mildly, but it’s also a key component to why, I believe, it is we both keep coming back for more.
I drink so very little water the sweat pouring from my glands is comprised of mostly Coca-Cola.
I understand California is experiencing an epic drought to which I can completely relate to. Their golf courses though are still green because recreation always seems to take precedent over salvation no matter how poorly you slice the ball into the burning woods.
My friend Dan gets what I’m saying and drinks a glass of water every chance he gets. He’s as smart as a whip and delivers the genuine goods without batting an eye. Me I’m still as dry as a bone and wish somebody I loved would hold me under the water just for the sake of getting wet and saving myself from dry rot.
Charles Cicirella
6/11/15
Poetessa II
http://charlespoet.podomatic.com/entry/2015-06-10T22_23_15-07_00
You make my intellect hard with your wind chime wordage and passionate declarations of unwavering interdependence.
I was frozen in space when you appeared out of the motel-vacancy-cold. I discover myself thawing out and open to new trains of unregulated thought and being.
My loins ache for you as I consume your poetry from the inside out and the outside in. I’m a better person for it. And I’m a better poet for it too.
I am a feral poet. No fan of academia and never very adept at fitting in. I find my words in the roadkill at the side of the road. I’m not afraid of picking up a dead animal with my bare hands and turning it into something beautiful with my stark-naked brain.
Jim Murray sprang the word intellect on me when I was just a pup. I’m still running away from his left handed compliments and doing my best to make some sense out of his blood on the tracks heroic paranoia.
I cannot wait till you allow your freak flag to fly. Cannot wait till you realize just how much talent you possess and stop making excuses for everyone else’s shortcomings.
Oftentimes breaking bad is the only direction left to head. I believe you must soon get in touch with the superhero existing deep inside of you.
You make things easier with every message I receive from you.
I am so sick and tired of not living up to my full potential, but when talking to you I know anything is possible and that we’re all bound for glory!
There is nothing sexier than talking about books and I absolutely love how you understand that and keep playing off my most obvious and obnoxious of flirtations.
I want for us to read to each other in a well lit room where no one and nothing will disturb us. I cannot wait to spread my cadence onto a cracker and feed it to you like a baby bird.
Charles Cicirella
6/10/15
You make my intellect hard with your wind chime wordage and passionate declarations of unwavering interdependence.
I was frozen in space when you appeared out of the motel-vacancy-cold. I discover myself thawing out and open to new trains of unregulated thought and being.
My loins ache for you as I consume your poetry from the inside out and the outside in. I’m a better person for it. And I’m a better poet for it too.
I am a feral poet. No fan of academia and never very adept at fitting in. I find my words in the roadkill at the side of the road. I’m not afraid of picking up a dead animal with my bare hands and turning it into something beautiful with my stark-naked brain.
Jim Murray sprang the word intellect on me when I was just a pup. I’m still running away from his left handed compliments and doing my best to make some sense out of his blood on the tracks heroic paranoia.
I cannot wait till you allow your freak flag to fly. Cannot wait till you realize just how much talent you possess and stop making excuses for everyone else’s shortcomings.
Oftentimes breaking bad is the only direction left to head. I believe you must soon get in touch with the superhero existing deep inside of you.
You make things easier with every message I receive from you.
I am so sick and tired of not living up to my full potential, but when talking to you I know anything is possible and that we’re all bound for glory!
There is nothing sexier than talking about books and I absolutely love how you understand that and keep playing off my most obvious and obnoxious of flirtations.
I want for us to read to each other in a well lit room where no one and nothing will disturb us. I cannot wait to spread my cadence onto a cracker and feed it to you like a baby bird.
Charles Cicirella
6/10/15
THAT
http://charlespoet.podomatic.com/entry/2015-06-09T10_14_46-07_00
Her poetry.
Brings me. Through.
A heatwave.
On my intellect’s inner nature.
From across the universe.
The temerity of her words.
A sonic boom.
A Savior’s healing wounds.
Isolated dead weight.
On the borders of hungry love.
For you.
Charles Eric Cicirella
6/9/15
Her poetry.
Brings me. Through.
A heatwave.
On my intellect’s inner nature.
From across the universe.
The temerity of her words.
A sonic boom.
A Savior’s healing wounds.
Isolated dead weight.
On the borders of hungry love.
For you.
Charles Eric Cicirella
6/9/15
Monday, June 08, 2015
Despondent
http://charlespoet.podomatic.com/entry/2015-06-08T11_12_30-07_00
I don’t want to write another poem about going to the bathroom.
Someone said to me the other day when talking about poets in Cleveland, Ohio that we’re all pretty much at the same level of writing ability. I could not believe my ears and I could not disagree with this person more. They also said none of us were the next Kerouac to which I thought there already was one Jack Kerouac why does there need to be another.
I’m despondent.
Despondent to my lethargy
Despondent to this inoperable tumor I’m being led to believe is my human spirit.
I’m despondent to the thought of writing the next great American novel like Stanford or Brautigan did and then being forgotten or worse yet misplaced in the annals of popular culture.
Forget we ever had this conversation. I’m going to go suck on an exhaust pipe and pray to God it kills me or at the very least takes me temporarily out of commission.
I’m through writing about my bodily functions and how they do or do not agree with me.
I thought sharing was caring until realizing no one cares and that I was basically sharing with a bunch of imaginary people I had made up in both my heart and head.
I thought we cared about each other until you started acting all haughty about money I supposedly owed you and then took three hundred dollars out of my bank account.
I don’t feel like writing a poem about someone, anyone taking me to the cleaners.
I’m despondent.
When asked what my next move will be I do my best to say very little and never look my assailant in the eye.
Oftentimes you are being raked over the coals even when you don’t realize it’s happening. All of a sudden your bum is sore and everyone is pointing at you like you’re on fire.
I’m desperately unhappy.
Forget you ever made the effort to read this poem and I’ll forgive you for your trespasses the next time you are on your knees putting someone, anyone into your mouth just to pass the time and make you feel even the least little bit alive.
Charles Cicirella
6/7/15
I don’t want to write another poem about going to the bathroom.
Someone said to me the other day when talking about poets in Cleveland, Ohio that we’re all pretty much at the same level of writing ability. I could not believe my ears and I could not disagree with this person more. They also said none of us were the next Kerouac to which I thought there already was one Jack Kerouac why does there need to be another.
I’m despondent.
Despondent to my lethargy
Despondent to this inoperable tumor I’m being led to believe is my human spirit.
I’m despondent to the thought of writing the next great American novel like Stanford or Brautigan did and then being forgotten or worse yet misplaced in the annals of popular culture.
Forget we ever had this conversation. I’m going to go suck on an exhaust pipe and pray to God it kills me or at the very least takes me temporarily out of commission.
I’m through writing about my bodily functions and how they do or do not agree with me.
I thought sharing was caring until realizing no one cares and that I was basically sharing with a bunch of imaginary people I had made up in both my heart and head.
I thought we cared about each other until you started acting all haughty about money I supposedly owed you and then took three hundred dollars out of my bank account.
I don’t feel like writing a poem about someone, anyone taking me to the cleaners.
I’m despondent.
When asked what my next move will be I do my best to say very little and never look my assailant in the eye.
Oftentimes you are being raked over the coals even when you don’t realize it’s happening. All of a sudden your bum is sore and everyone is pointing at you like you’re on fire.
I’m desperately unhappy.
Forget you ever made the effort to read this poem and I’ll forgive you for your trespasses the next time you are on your knees putting someone, anyone into your mouth just to pass the time and make you feel even the least little bit alive.
Charles Cicirella
6/7/15
Monday, June 01, 2015
Poetessa
http://charlespoet.podomatic.com/entry/2015-06-01T21_04_04-07_00
I wonder if she was tempted in the least little bit to call after I gave her my cell number?
We could talk about nothing and just listen to the other one breathe.
We could talk about everything including the love like some raven at our window with a broken wing.
I stole part of that last line, but I’m sure he’ll understand and not be too miffed with my poetic theft.
Repurposing is all the rage in these days of bird flu and designer ice-cream that will kill you if you give it just half a chance.
It’s a slippery slope believing in your heart of hearts that you’re an artist when in your everyday life you refuse to allow anything to take seed and grow like the tallest tree or shortest poet.
I wonder where she came out of all of a sudden.
I swear she appeared when my back was turned and like an orphan with his gun I stood there crying like a fire in the sun.
I’ve done it again. Repurposed one of the traveling troubadour’s great lines. Of course who knows where he may have picked it up at because isn’t creating just like a game of Pick-up Sticks? The sticks in this case are red hot pokers and we’re all looking to leave our brand on someone else’s unsuspecting cattle.
I was at a loss for words then I cleared my throat and accepted a s'more from a man who never fails to make me smile and feel good about myself.
I thought the s’more would be sickening sweet but because he used bittersweet chocolate I found myself wanting another but too shy to ask for a second one.
I am reading her poem as I hold my breath and discover myself feeling like Henry Limpet with all his daydreams of being a fish locked in so tightly into my craven heart.
We must tear ourselves down to the very foundation before we can rebuild in the image of something completely profane or sacred depending on both our outlook on things and the Kool-Aid we’ve been drinking.
I’ve noticed how closely she holds her cards to her chest. Something I can thoroughly relate to because this world can’t stand long and while we’re hanging around it’s best we’re comfortable with those we choose to hang out with and get to know intimately or otherwise.
She just told me she loves black licorice which I can completely concur with and has me now thinking about Black Jack chewing gum and how sad it is that such complexity is lost in our flavorless and thread barren modern times.
I wonder if she was tempted in the least little bit to call and how at ease I would be talking to a stranger who is quickly becoming a muse and a friend.
Charles Cicirella
6/1/15
I wonder if she was tempted in the least little bit to call after I gave her my cell number?
We could talk about nothing and just listen to the other one breathe.
We could talk about everything including the love like some raven at our window with a broken wing.
I stole part of that last line, but I’m sure he’ll understand and not be too miffed with my poetic theft.
Repurposing is all the rage in these days of bird flu and designer ice-cream that will kill you if you give it just half a chance.
It’s a slippery slope believing in your heart of hearts that you’re an artist when in your everyday life you refuse to allow anything to take seed and grow like the tallest tree or shortest poet.
I wonder where she came out of all of a sudden.
I swear she appeared when my back was turned and like an orphan with his gun I stood there crying like a fire in the sun.
I’ve done it again. Repurposed one of the traveling troubadour’s great lines. Of course who knows where he may have picked it up at because isn’t creating just like a game of Pick-up Sticks? The sticks in this case are red hot pokers and we’re all looking to leave our brand on someone else’s unsuspecting cattle.
I was at a loss for words then I cleared my throat and accepted a s'more from a man who never fails to make me smile and feel good about myself.
I thought the s’more would be sickening sweet but because he used bittersweet chocolate I found myself wanting another but too shy to ask for a second one.
I am reading her poem as I hold my breath and discover myself feeling like Henry Limpet with all his daydreams of being a fish locked in so tightly into my craven heart.
We must tear ourselves down to the very foundation before we can rebuild in the image of something completely profane or sacred depending on both our outlook on things and the Kool-Aid we’ve been drinking.
I’ve noticed how closely she holds her cards to her chest. Something I can thoroughly relate to because this world can’t stand long and while we’re hanging around it’s best we’re comfortable with those we choose to hang out with and get to know intimately or otherwise.
She just told me she loves black licorice which I can completely concur with and has me now thinking about Black Jack chewing gum and how sad it is that such complexity is lost in our flavorless and thread barren modern times.
I wonder if she was tempted in the least little bit to call and how at ease I would be talking to a stranger who is quickly becoming a muse and a friend.
Charles Cicirella
6/1/15
Deceit & Treachery
http://charlespoet.podomatic.com/entry/2015-06-03T21_57_53-07_00
I started lying to myself.
I can’t tell you exactly when this practice began.
It was either that or trying to communicate more, but to be perfectly honest I’m sick and tired of getting lost in translation.
I like you because you’re easy to understand.
Plus you’re not totally automated which is a huge bonus for a man like me who prefers the do it yourself approach over the wait around until someone else does it for you approach.
If these words prove to be ineffective I’ll go hide in the corner praying everyone forgets I was here or was ever even born.
My parents tell me I was planned which I find rather surprising considering my life up till now has had no blueprint and for escape hatches I’m afraid even those have long been wallpapered over.
Thinking about calling it a day.
Thinking about eating a cherry cheese Danish and drinking a glass of Coca-Cola.
I’ll settle for the latter and wish I’d done the former when all is said and done and the laundry is brought in from the clothesline.
I like her freckles and her emoticons.
I was going to give her my cell number and tell her to call the next time she couldn’t fall asleep but didn’t want to give her the wrong impression or maybe I did.
I’ve never stopped telling myself exactly how it is.
I can tell you the precise moment the light started to shine and a dark night of the soul was placed on permanent hold.
Writing is not an exercise for me nor is it a hobby or something I take lightly like riding the Silver Beach Carousel or swimming in the great white shark infested Atlantic Ocean.
When realizing deceit and treachery were her idea of foreplay that is when I should have run for the hills and never looked back.
Charles Cicirella
5/31/15
I started lying to myself.
I can’t tell you exactly when this practice began.
It was either that or trying to communicate more, but to be perfectly honest I’m sick and tired of getting lost in translation.
I like you because you’re easy to understand.
Plus you’re not totally automated which is a huge bonus for a man like me who prefers the do it yourself approach over the wait around until someone else does it for you approach.
If these words prove to be ineffective I’ll go hide in the corner praying everyone forgets I was here or was ever even born.
My parents tell me I was planned which I find rather surprising considering my life up till now has had no blueprint and for escape hatches I’m afraid even those have long been wallpapered over.
Thinking about calling it a day.
Thinking about eating a cherry cheese Danish and drinking a glass of Coca-Cola.
I’ll settle for the latter and wish I’d done the former when all is said and done and the laundry is brought in from the clothesline.
I like her freckles and her emoticons.
I was going to give her my cell number and tell her to call the next time she couldn’t fall asleep but didn’t want to give her the wrong impression or maybe I did.
I’ve never stopped telling myself exactly how it is.
I can tell you the precise moment the light started to shine and a dark night of the soul was placed on permanent hold.
Writing is not an exercise for me nor is it a hobby or something I take lightly like riding the Silver Beach Carousel or swimming in the great white shark infested Atlantic Ocean.
When realizing deceit and treachery were her idea of foreplay that is when I should have run for the hills and never looked back.
Charles Cicirella
5/31/15
Sunday, March 29, 2015
Sugar and Caffeine
http://charlespoet.podomatic.com/entry/2015-03-29T14_51_56-07_00
Standing there mixing dry creamer into my instant coffee.
It’s become a ritual when I wake up and crawl back into the world.
I just took a sip of the delicious brew and actually felt it wake me up and pat me on the head.
I hated when I was a kid having to mow the lawn. It just seemed like the ultimate waste of time. I mean seriously why can’t the lawn just grow? What’s wrong with living in the jungle in the middle of suburbia like a drug lord or exiled dictator?
To this day I am still angry with myself for not taking my dog Bogie out for more walks. He was like my very hairy younger brother and he deserved better than he got.
It wasn’t easy writing that last line as the pangs of regret line up and take turns kicking me squarely in the gut. I was fourteen years old and to be perfectly honest it was only Bogie that really even wanted to hang out with me and always seemed to love me unconditionally.
At forty five years old I have no pets except for my ego which I also keep in the garage, but I walk it more frequently because I have learned my lesson and my ego deserves no less than to be treated like the king it surely is.
Someone recently told me they felt I came across with a sense of entitlement. It’s true that I do feel entitled in some small or large degree depending on the situation, but what this person fails to understand is that we’re all preexisting in glass houses of self-entitlement and privilege and that there is nothing wrong with that as long as we don’t become too full of ourselves and end up catching fire and crashing like the Hindenburg.
I’m not whining in the least little bit. I am only telling it like I believe it is and that is all any of us can do as we survive, thrive and ultimately come to an end on this merry-go-round of grind and labor.
The coffee is now cold, but that’s okay I’ll drink it anyway because it’s the caffeine and sugar I crave not the flavor or ridiculous social convention.
I know all of this sugar in my body is not a good thing and maybe it’s true that I am a sugar junkie, but at least I stay away from the harder drugs like alcohol, heroin and being a Republican.
Charles Cicirella
3/29/15
Standing there mixing dry creamer into my instant coffee.
It’s become a ritual when I wake up and crawl back into the world.
I just took a sip of the delicious brew and actually felt it wake me up and pat me on the head.
I hated when I was a kid having to mow the lawn. It just seemed like the ultimate waste of time. I mean seriously why can’t the lawn just grow? What’s wrong with living in the jungle in the middle of suburbia like a drug lord or exiled dictator?
To this day I am still angry with myself for not taking my dog Bogie out for more walks. He was like my very hairy younger brother and he deserved better than he got.
It wasn’t easy writing that last line as the pangs of regret line up and take turns kicking me squarely in the gut. I was fourteen years old and to be perfectly honest it was only Bogie that really even wanted to hang out with me and always seemed to love me unconditionally.
At forty five years old I have no pets except for my ego which I also keep in the garage, but I walk it more frequently because I have learned my lesson and my ego deserves no less than to be treated like the king it surely is.
Someone recently told me they felt I came across with a sense of entitlement. It’s true that I do feel entitled in some small or large degree depending on the situation, but what this person fails to understand is that we’re all preexisting in glass houses of self-entitlement and privilege and that there is nothing wrong with that as long as we don’t become too full of ourselves and end up catching fire and crashing like the Hindenburg.
I’m not whining in the least little bit. I am only telling it like I believe it is and that is all any of us can do as we survive, thrive and ultimately come to an end on this merry-go-round of grind and labor.
The coffee is now cold, but that’s okay I’ll drink it anyway because it’s the caffeine and sugar I crave not the flavor or ridiculous social convention.
I know all of this sugar in my body is not a good thing and maybe it’s true that I am a sugar junkie, but at least I stay away from the harder drugs like alcohol, heroin and being a Republican.
Charles Cicirella
3/29/15
PB & J
http://charlespoet.podomatic.com/entry/2015-03-29T04_11_27-07_00
I want to eat you up like a pb & j.
Slather on the grape jelly like I was your favorite Little Rascal.
Leave what I do with the peanut butter to your most fertile of imaginings.
We begin as Children of Paradise and if we’re lucky we’re not sold off to the highest bidder, strapped with a bomb around our chest and delivered to a town square where unsuspecting people are going to die for no other reason than God has left this part of the world a long, long time ago.
It’s time to eat a pb & j and do my very best to forget my troubles and woes.
My sister brought me groceries today along with a large pepperoni pizza and allergy medicine. We have not connected much the past few years. In fact we’ve never really connected all that much to begin with, but we’re still family and when we hugged and said our I love you’s I felt a sense of family that I have not felt in many years.
We must learn to cease and desist from taking ourselves for granted.
It’s 3:53 AM and I swear my inner child is somewhere amid all of this clutter I like to pretend is my life when in truth my life is free range and cannot be domesticated.
I believe it’s high time I served myself with a search warrant and discovered once and for all where all of the bodies and freeze dried tears have been buried.
I’m going to go into the kitchen in a few minutes and make myself a sandwich and pour myself another glass of Coca Cola.
My favorite Little Rascal was probably Alfalfa even though both Spanky and Mickey rank up there at the very top of my list.
I remember episodes of this show better than I remember episodes from my own childhood. Life is funny that way continually keeping you guessing and wanting more until you end up drunk, banging on someone’s door, demanding fifty bucks for a hunting dog you’d loaned out and never been compensated for.
Charles Cicirella
3/29/15
I want to eat you up like a pb & j.
Slather on the grape jelly like I was your favorite Little Rascal.
Leave what I do with the peanut butter to your most fertile of imaginings.
We begin as Children of Paradise and if we’re lucky we’re not sold off to the highest bidder, strapped with a bomb around our chest and delivered to a town square where unsuspecting people are going to die for no other reason than God has left this part of the world a long, long time ago.
It’s time to eat a pb & j and do my very best to forget my troubles and woes.
My sister brought me groceries today along with a large pepperoni pizza and allergy medicine. We have not connected much the past few years. In fact we’ve never really connected all that much to begin with, but we’re still family and when we hugged and said our I love you’s I felt a sense of family that I have not felt in many years.
We must learn to cease and desist from taking ourselves for granted.
It’s 3:53 AM and I swear my inner child is somewhere amid all of this clutter I like to pretend is my life when in truth my life is free range and cannot be domesticated.
I believe it’s high time I served myself with a search warrant and discovered once and for all where all of the bodies and freeze dried tears have been buried.
I’m going to go into the kitchen in a few minutes and make myself a sandwich and pour myself another glass of Coca Cola.
My favorite Little Rascal was probably Alfalfa even though both Spanky and Mickey rank up there at the very top of my list.
I remember episodes of this show better than I remember episodes from my own childhood. Life is funny that way continually keeping you guessing and wanting more until you end up drunk, banging on someone’s door, demanding fifty bucks for a hunting dog you’d loaned out and never been compensated for.
Charles Cicirella
3/29/15
Saturday, March 28, 2015
Wordage
(For Leah Mueller, Russ Van Rooy, Juliet Cook, Joni Soule, Christina M. Brooks,
Erica Jayne Johnson, Darin Bulai, Steven Smith & Daniel Kennedy)
http://charlespoet.podomatic.com/entry/2015-03-28T13_52_18-07_00
There’s a blizzard of words in my head.
No two snowflakes are alike and it’s the same with words and people and even prayers once you put them under the microscope.
There’s a blizzard of you in my head and it’s bound to kill me dead. It’s okay though because I have always wanted to overdose on someone else’s wordage. It’s a self-fulfilling prophecy like being white and walking through the south side of Chicago at night.
We met on FB a funny place to hookup I will admit, but it seems like more and more people are doing this social networking thing which I believe has ushered in a new age of anti-social behavior.
Close knit societies are no longer all the rage and quilting bees seem to have worn out their warm, cozy welcome.
When it comes to poetry slams I’d rather slam my head against a cement wall than enter my blood poetry into a blood sport where a bunch of professional alcoholics skewer me like a roast pig.
There’s a tempest in a teapot of poetry in my head.
No two poems are alike and the same goes with a good cup of English tea once you stop being a snob and accept Afternoon tea as an inevitability.
There’s a populace of poets raging in my head. It’s alright though because I rather like all of these creative peoples ransacking my chamber of commerce brain and leaving me completely spent and whittled down in size. It’s a self-fulfilling prophecy like eating only ghosts morning, noon and night and going to bed haunted and full of someone else’s memories and regrets.
Charles Cicirella
3/28/15
http://charlespoet.podomatic.com/entry/2015-03-28T13_52_18-07_00
There’s a blizzard of words in my head.
No two snowflakes are alike and it’s the same with words and people and even prayers once you put them under the microscope.
There’s a blizzard of you in my head and it’s bound to kill me dead. It’s okay though because I have always wanted to overdose on someone else’s wordage. It’s a self-fulfilling prophecy like being white and walking through the south side of Chicago at night.
We met on FB a funny place to hookup I will admit, but it seems like more and more people are doing this social networking thing which I believe has ushered in a new age of anti-social behavior.
Close knit societies are no longer all the rage and quilting bees seem to have worn out their warm, cozy welcome.
When it comes to poetry slams I’d rather slam my head against a cement wall than enter my blood poetry into a blood sport where a bunch of professional alcoholics skewer me like a roast pig.
There’s a tempest in a teapot of poetry in my head.
No two poems are alike and the same goes with a good cup of English tea once you stop being a snob and accept Afternoon tea as an inevitability.
There’s a populace of poets raging in my head. It’s alright though because I rather like all of these creative peoples ransacking my chamber of commerce brain and leaving me completely spent and whittled down in size. It’s a self-fulfilling prophecy like eating only ghosts morning, noon and night and going to bed haunted and full of someone else’s memories and regrets.
Charles Cicirella
3/28/15
Naked Poets
http://charlespoet.podomatic.com/entry/2015-03-28T01_10_06-07_00
I like to think we’re all naked poets, but nothing could be further from the truth.
Too many supposed poets taking the easy way out and only writing about what they do not know instead of what they have experienced in this life or a past life or even a future life on another planet or deep underground.
Too many writers filtering their slaughterhouse words because they’re afraid they will be rounded up and brought to a death camp to be experimented on for all of their ineffectiveness.
It’s just my opinion of course and maybe being a clothed poet makes more sense in these days of lost irony where one’s poetic license has been traded in for a Starbucks gift card.
I’ve even been told clothed poets make better lovers which I think is total bunk because no lovemaking is worth its weight in gold fillings if your intellect is not writhing in ecstasy when your partner checks your oil and replaces your brake pads.
Naked poets have more of a tendency to go the extra mile long after the wheels have fallen off and we’re cooped up in some nondescript truck stop in some nondescript rest area where all of the nondescript people grunt like sows and are led around by a nondescript Christian God they believe they’re on a first name basis with.
Maybe I am not even a naked poet and am just another loser writing the losing end while the ghost of Nathanael West reaches out to me from beyond the grave and The Day of the Locust mocks me like all alienated and desperate works of unparalleled genius have a tendency to do.
Perhaps I’m just another Dylan wannabe who thinks they’re breaking all of the rules when no rules in fact exist and Dylan was right on target when he said “I accept chaos, I'm not sure whether it accepts me.”
Put on your windbreaker, get on your bicycle and ride around the promenade like any other legend who knows how it feels gathering no moss while standing in front of the crowd completely naked and bereft of any second or third nincompoop notions.
I wish I could take off my clothes and write this poem in the buff but my mother is in the dining room reading the newspaper and I know she wouldn’t get it.
It’s odd how poetry seems to more often than not divide us rather than bringing us together and to a more enlightened jumping-off place.
Too many writers tamping down their black powder verse for a more reserved and less confrontational tone. I believe it’s time we throw caution to the freewheelin’ wind and write about what’s going on. Pulling no punches while pushing the river and celebrating those who dare to break ranks with their counterintuitive claptrap prose while spilling their precious bodily fluids down on the killin' floor.
Charles Cicirella
3/27/15
I like to think we’re all naked poets, but nothing could be further from the truth.
Too many supposed poets taking the easy way out and only writing about what they do not know instead of what they have experienced in this life or a past life or even a future life on another planet or deep underground.
Too many writers filtering their slaughterhouse words because they’re afraid they will be rounded up and brought to a death camp to be experimented on for all of their ineffectiveness.
It’s just my opinion of course and maybe being a clothed poet makes more sense in these days of lost irony where one’s poetic license has been traded in for a Starbucks gift card.
I’ve even been told clothed poets make better lovers which I think is total bunk because no lovemaking is worth its weight in gold fillings if your intellect is not writhing in ecstasy when your partner checks your oil and replaces your brake pads.
Naked poets have more of a tendency to go the extra mile long after the wheels have fallen off and we’re cooped up in some nondescript truck stop in some nondescript rest area where all of the nondescript people grunt like sows and are led around by a nondescript Christian God they believe they’re on a first name basis with.
Maybe I am not even a naked poet and am just another loser writing the losing end while the ghost of Nathanael West reaches out to me from beyond the grave and The Day of the Locust mocks me like all alienated and desperate works of unparalleled genius have a tendency to do.
Perhaps I’m just another Dylan wannabe who thinks they’re breaking all of the rules when no rules in fact exist and Dylan was right on target when he said “I accept chaos, I'm not sure whether it accepts me.”
Put on your windbreaker, get on your bicycle and ride around the promenade like any other legend who knows how it feels gathering no moss while standing in front of the crowd completely naked and bereft of any second or third nincompoop notions.
I wish I could take off my clothes and write this poem in the buff but my mother is in the dining room reading the newspaper and I know she wouldn’t get it.
It’s odd how poetry seems to more often than not divide us rather than bringing us together and to a more enlightened jumping-off place.
Too many writers tamping down their black powder verse for a more reserved and less confrontational tone. I believe it’s time we throw caution to the freewheelin’ wind and write about what’s going on. Pulling no punches while pushing the river and celebrating those who dare to break ranks with their counterintuitive claptrap prose while spilling their precious bodily fluids down on the killin' floor.
Charles Cicirella
3/27/15
Wednesday, March 25, 2015
Penitent
http://charlespoet.podomatic.com/entry/2015-03-25T14_20_31-07_00
These words are not meant as an escape, stained glass window or glass half full.
They’re just words. Something to lean on or rely upon for the time being.
And I know I hurt you. And I know I hurt myself, but that’s oftentimes the way it is when responsibility is a fleeting notion and hanging out only leads to a bad hangover the next morning.
The priest asked if I was penitent and all I could think was how did I end up in this small box copping to shit I never had any intention of confessing to in the first place.
I wish you would talk to me instead of instantly shutting down at the first sign of an emotion you’re not comfortable making eye contact with.
Drink the coffee like its arsenic. Wear the old lace like it’s a bulletproof vest and never forget I loved you when you were broken and I will love you if and when you are fixed.
I’ve never been repentant. Maybe it’s all the guilt I’ve had to process from the very beginning when I was a pudgy, freckled, red haired momma’s boy to the present day when I’m becoming a curmudgeon of a man staring down my mortality and praying to God all these prophecies are not self-fulfilling.
We begin with Genesis and end with the Book of Revelation and in the middle there’s plenty of bloodletting and bloodlust and more excuses to spill blood than you can shake a stick at.
According to Hollywood Jesus either looks like Jeffrey Hunter or Willem Dafoe, but either way I will never accept that Judas Iscariot looked anything like Harvey Keitel.
These words are not meant as a way in or for that matter a way out. I started writing when the words appeared in my brainpan and I figured it best that I do something with them.
It was never my intention to deliver some heavy handed crusade or bring about some kind of movement with all of these consonants and vowels twisted and shaped into soft pretzels of illogic and misappropriated mustard seeds of Count Chocula faith.
I am so sick and tired of trust fund babies telling me to get my life together when it has been clear from the outset one person’s answers are another person’s problems and never shall the twain meet. I was looking for a drinking buddy not a life coach when we hooked up so either pick up the bottle and take a drink or don’t let the door hit you on the way out. I’m not sorry in the least little bit and I’ve hardly gotten started expressing to you how disappointed I am with your Teflon Stonehenge comportment. I cannot get over how you kept bogarting the joint when it was passed to you and I’ll never forgive you for actually believing I needed help. Fuck you and the white horse you rode in on. Fuck you and the smack you OD’d on. Just fuck you.
Charles Cicirella
3/25/15
These words are not meant as an escape, stained glass window or glass half full.
They’re just words. Something to lean on or rely upon for the time being.
And I know I hurt you. And I know I hurt myself, but that’s oftentimes the way it is when responsibility is a fleeting notion and hanging out only leads to a bad hangover the next morning.
The priest asked if I was penitent and all I could think was how did I end up in this small box copping to shit I never had any intention of confessing to in the first place.
I wish you would talk to me instead of instantly shutting down at the first sign of an emotion you’re not comfortable making eye contact with.
Drink the coffee like its arsenic. Wear the old lace like it’s a bulletproof vest and never forget I loved you when you were broken and I will love you if and when you are fixed.
I’ve never been repentant. Maybe it’s all the guilt I’ve had to process from the very beginning when I was a pudgy, freckled, red haired momma’s boy to the present day when I’m becoming a curmudgeon of a man staring down my mortality and praying to God all these prophecies are not self-fulfilling.
We begin with Genesis and end with the Book of Revelation and in the middle there’s plenty of bloodletting and bloodlust and more excuses to spill blood than you can shake a stick at.
According to Hollywood Jesus either looks like Jeffrey Hunter or Willem Dafoe, but either way I will never accept that Judas Iscariot looked anything like Harvey Keitel.
These words are not meant as a way in or for that matter a way out. I started writing when the words appeared in my brainpan and I figured it best that I do something with them.
It was never my intention to deliver some heavy handed crusade or bring about some kind of movement with all of these consonants and vowels twisted and shaped into soft pretzels of illogic and misappropriated mustard seeds of Count Chocula faith.
I am so sick and tired of trust fund babies telling me to get my life together when it has been clear from the outset one person’s answers are another person’s problems and never shall the twain meet. I was looking for a drinking buddy not a life coach when we hooked up so either pick up the bottle and take a drink or don’t let the door hit you on the way out. I’m not sorry in the least little bit and I’ve hardly gotten started expressing to you how disappointed I am with your Teflon Stonehenge comportment. I cannot get over how you kept bogarting the joint when it was passed to you and I’ll never forgive you for actually believing I needed help. Fuck you and the white horse you rode in on. Fuck you and the smack you OD’d on. Just fuck you.
Charles Cicirella
3/25/15
Monday, March 23, 2015
Another poem. Another poetry disc started.
These poetry coordinates don’t make any sense.
I cannot tell a lie. I desire to see you naked.
Naked of clothes, naked of thought.
Completely naked and withholding nothing.
I would like to begin this seminar with some deep knee bends.
I would like to begin by no longer pretending we believe in love and accept how helpless and hopeless our romantic status has become.
I am so inclined to stop believing in that new car smell because the last time I smelled it my father had bought a shiny new black and red Z28 as he grabbed hold of his midlife crisis like any sad man with prostate cancer grabs hold of their penis and awaits a more positive outcome.
I’m not Paul Simon. Heck I’m not even Anne Frank because the attics I hid in were in the suburbs of America and the only holocaust I ever experienced was in my Fisher-Price mind.
My brain chemistry is fractured and that is the way I prefer it. I took steroids one time for Bell’s palsy and felt honest to God even for the first time in my life, but after a while I missed the dramatic ups and downs of an artistic sensibility where everyday a new obstacle presents itself and waits to be vanquished.
“Behind the toilet is black” my mother screams from the bathroom and all I can think is what did either one of us do to deserve such similar death sentence fates?
In the year of 2015 all you have to do is take a pill to feel better and if that one pill does not work another pill will be prescribed to take along with the first pill. Doesn’t anyone else see how messed up that is? It gets me thinking that the war on drugs is still going on and it has everything to do with legal drugs prescribed by statisticians and nothing whatsoever to do with the person standing on the corner.
These poetry coordinates are just leading me around in dizzying circles.
My friend Joni posts her poetry and I once again find myself jealous of her artistic free will but understand she suffers for every brushstroke of the paintbrush, pen or finger she wields onto a canvas screen of nausea and snow blindness.
I cannot tell a lie. I desire to go bowling with you, but let’s forget about the uncomfortable and stinky rented bowling shoes and instead wear our own slippers and flannel PJs.
For the first time in our lives let’s shed all of our emotional baggage and do our very best to leave our persecution complexes at home with our rescue dogs and our Titanic inferiority complexes.
For the first time in our lives let’s act like children completely devoid of guilt and free of the sins of our parents.
Charles Cicirella
3/23/15
Friday, March 20, 2015
Cherry Cheese Hello
http://charlespoet.podomatic.com/entry/2015-03-20T11_08_01-07_00
drinking instant coffee
eating a cherry cheese danish
watching the jinx
thinking what a scumbag robert durst is
sad little rich boy
entitled freakish little man
who believes the world is his ashtray
i don’t feel sorry for you in the least little bit as i watch you being interviewed
and i try to decode your facial ticks like they were some kind of morse code
peeling off your mask in clammy clumps of plaster a paris
sounds like your father drove your mother to jump from that roof and that money covers up the sins of the father like it’s now covering up the crimes of the son and everyone does what they are told to do because money doesn’t talk it bleats and god forbid someone finally stands up and calls you on your bullshit and pulls you down from your garbage encrusted pedestal that you teeter upon like some shit eating monster that gets off on pulling one over on everyone because you seem to think money makes you untouchable in your bubble world with your bubble emotions and your cherry cheese gravelly hellos and your desperate pleas for attention or retention or whatever gets you by and ultimately gives you away in some public bathroom because even the sick and depraved can be dragged down by guilt and loneliness and remorse and whatever passes for sorrow in these days of gods and monsters and slap happy guttural screams for help
Charles Cicirella
3/20/15
drinking instant coffee
eating a cherry cheese danish
watching the jinx
thinking what a scumbag robert durst is
sad little rich boy
entitled freakish little man
who believes the world is his ashtray
i don’t feel sorry for you in the least little bit as i watch you being interviewed
and i try to decode your facial ticks like they were some kind of morse code
peeling off your mask in clammy clumps of plaster a paris
sounds like your father drove your mother to jump from that roof and that money covers up the sins of the father like it’s now covering up the crimes of the son and everyone does what they are told to do because money doesn’t talk it bleats and god forbid someone finally stands up and calls you on your bullshit and pulls you down from your garbage encrusted pedestal that you teeter upon like some shit eating monster that gets off on pulling one over on everyone because you seem to think money makes you untouchable in your bubble world with your bubble emotions and your cherry cheese gravelly hellos and your desperate pleas for attention or retention or whatever gets you by and ultimately gives you away in some public bathroom because even the sick and depraved can be dragged down by guilt and loneliness and remorse and whatever passes for sorrow in these days of gods and monsters and slap happy guttural screams for help
Charles Cicirella
3/20/15
Thursday, March 19, 2015
God Squad Squawk Box
http://charlespoet.podomatic.com/entry/2015-03-18T22_43_03-07_00
I am here
Here I am
Come and get me
Job was not a victim
Job didn’t have it coming to him
Job was just in the wrong place at the wrong time
I am trying my best to be open to inspiration
I am praying I don’t just become more collateral damage
I am well aware that resisting change is completely futile
Moses was not an Amway Distributor
Moses held no stock in pyramid schemes
Moses like Edward Scissorhands was a gentle spirit with a kind heart
I am tired of being by myself
Loneliness has got me on the run
I wish someone would ask me to dance
John the Baptist had it going on
John the Baptist was the first rebel without a cause
John the Baptist made it look easy because he did not require any backup band when crying in the wilderness
Charles Cicirella
3/18/15
I am here
Here I am
Come and get me
Job was not a victim
Job didn’t have it coming to him
Job was just in the wrong place at the wrong time
I am trying my best to be open to inspiration
I am praying I don’t just become more collateral damage
I am well aware that resisting change is completely futile
Moses was not an Amway Distributor
Moses held no stock in pyramid schemes
Moses like Edward Scissorhands was a gentle spirit with a kind heart
I am tired of being by myself
Loneliness has got me on the run
I wish someone would ask me to dance
John the Baptist had it going on
John the Baptist was the first rebel without a cause
John the Baptist made it look easy because he did not require any backup band when crying in the wilderness
Charles Cicirella
3/18/15
Sunday, March 15, 2015
Another Poem for Bob Dylan #5
http://charlespoet.podomatic.com/entry/2015-03-15T14_02_39-07_00
Singing “Dirge”
He’s a Jewish Cantor
He’s everything and nothing encapsulated into nothing and everything
“Like a slave in orbit”
Like a meteor from space
Superman was Clark Kent’s worst nightmare
Thinking about eating a couple of hotdogs with sauerkraut and French’s Yellow Mustard
It’s a beginning
It’s Exodus without the cries in the wilderness or the unleavened bread
My Passover could beat up your Easter
I know it’s not a contest but if it were my unforgiving God would beat the tar out of your turn the other cheek Son of Man
Let’s start with heavy petting and if that doesn’t get us anywhere then you can have your way with me once the roofie kicks in and Fat Albert promises to leave the room
There is just something about the way he sings that transports me to another level of consciousness
I love how he leaves no rolling stone unturned while inventing a new language that beats the crap out of however we used to communicate before he appeared on the scene like a vengeful spirit or circus oddity
He makes being a freak cool as he takes every one of us hostage with his Dog Day Afternoon declarations of independence and inconsolable heartache
Emoting “Dirge”
He’s a Christian Minstrel
He’s breaking bad while making it perfectly clear there never was anything to return home to
Charles Cicirella
3/15/15
Singing “Dirge”
He’s a Jewish Cantor
He’s everything and nothing encapsulated into nothing and everything
“Like a slave in orbit”
Like a meteor from space
Superman was Clark Kent’s worst nightmare
Thinking about eating a couple of hotdogs with sauerkraut and French’s Yellow Mustard
It’s a beginning
It’s Exodus without the cries in the wilderness or the unleavened bread
My Passover could beat up your Easter
I know it’s not a contest but if it were my unforgiving God would beat the tar out of your turn the other cheek Son of Man
Let’s start with heavy petting and if that doesn’t get us anywhere then you can have your way with me once the roofie kicks in and Fat Albert promises to leave the room
There is just something about the way he sings that transports me to another level of consciousness
I love how he leaves no rolling stone unturned while inventing a new language that beats the crap out of however we used to communicate before he appeared on the scene like a vengeful spirit or circus oddity
He makes being a freak cool as he takes every one of us hostage with his Dog Day Afternoon declarations of independence and inconsolable heartache
Emoting “Dirge”
He’s a Christian Minstrel
He’s breaking bad while making it perfectly clear there never was anything to return home to
Charles Cicirella
3/15/15
Friday, March 13, 2015
Our Secret Language (For Christina M. Brooks)
http://charlespoet.podomatic.com/entry/2015-03-13T18_00_20-07_00
Want to write a poem for you.
I believe this is that poem.
Watched you at Snoetry.
Still think about what you
Taught us and how you did it
Free of academia.
Think about you sitting against
The wall in Canton. How friendly
You were and how it made me
Feel like returning to the poetry
Scene was a good decision and
One I would not regret.
I very much want you to know
That you are not alone and that
I for one recognize and appreciate
Your generous and kind spirit.
I am also a very sensitive person
And no matter what anyone says
Having an open heart is a positive
And not a negative characteristic.
We bask in the sunlight of another
Dappled and delicious morning.
In our minds we are smelling the
Flowers and thanking some deity
For feeling so alive. You are a
Poet and there is no disputing that.
Poetry is a state of mind as much
As it is a state of true unbridled being.
Charles Cicirella
3/13/15
Want to write a poem for you.
I believe this is that poem.
Watched you at Snoetry.
Still think about what you
Taught us and how you did it
Free of academia.
Think about you sitting against
The wall in Canton. How friendly
You were and how it made me
Feel like returning to the poetry
Scene was a good decision and
One I would not regret.
I very much want you to know
That you are not alone and that
I for one recognize and appreciate
Your generous and kind spirit.
I am also a very sensitive person
And no matter what anyone says
Having an open heart is a positive
And not a negative characteristic.
We bask in the sunlight of another
Dappled and delicious morning.
In our minds we are smelling the
Flowers and thanking some deity
For feeling so alive. You are a
Poet and there is no disputing that.
Poetry is a state of mind as much
As it is a state of true unbridled being.
Charles Cicirella
3/13/15
Tuesday, March 10, 2015
Words Untoward
http://charlespoet.podomatic.com/entry/2015-03-10T01_42_53-07_00
Seems like everyone is writing poetry these days.
It’s not such a hard job. Just string together some pearls and get out of the way.
I’ve never really thought of myself as a poet. That’s an eminent title and I’m more of a shoe polisher than a Poet, Pope or Virgin Mother.
Believe in a reversal of misfortune it’s about all you have to do.
Just grab hold of the Technicolor rainbow and don’t look back unless you want to turn into a pillar of salt like Lot’s wife did so many years ago.
I remember hanging out with Nero as Rome burned and how disappointed he was when trying to bum a cigarette and I told him I don’t smoke.
Seems like everyone wants to be radicalized these days.
First there was a war on drugs then there was a war on terror and neither one of them really seemed to do much good. In fact I believe in both cases the allotted targets only grew bigger and more out of control.
You want to change the world? Forget about it because the world is one hard headed mofo and the blood and grease on our hands is only going to get thicker because when push comes to shove we’re all Catholic priests with an altar boy or two in our closets.
These words are untoward. These words are broken, scarred and disassembled.
I’m no Mary Poppins and even if I was I would prefer you kept Lady Gaga and her duplicitous tributes to yourself.
The very first poem I ever wrote was about the moon. Before I die I hope to write a poem about shooting the moon. Groucho Marx was a poet. Karl Marx not so much, but I believe both men were dyed in the wool romantics.
Seems like everyone is writing their very own obituary these days.
They start with all of these verbose adjectives that leave you wondering who they’re even talking about and before you know it they’re out of breath and wishing they’d been put out to pasture long before the stars were torn down.
I want to die, but not because I am a fatalist but simply because I believe death will give me more of an edge. Please understand I am in no hurry to spiral off this mortal coil, but when it does happen I will lean into it like all good poets do.
Charles Cicirella
2/27/15
Seems like everyone is writing poetry these days.
It’s not such a hard job. Just string together some pearls and get out of the way.
I’ve never really thought of myself as a poet. That’s an eminent title and I’m more of a shoe polisher than a Poet, Pope or Virgin Mother.
Believe in a reversal of misfortune it’s about all you have to do.
Just grab hold of the Technicolor rainbow and don’t look back unless you want to turn into a pillar of salt like Lot’s wife did so many years ago.
I remember hanging out with Nero as Rome burned and how disappointed he was when trying to bum a cigarette and I told him I don’t smoke.
Seems like everyone wants to be radicalized these days.
First there was a war on drugs then there was a war on terror and neither one of them really seemed to do much good. In fact I believe in both cases the allotted targets only grew bigger and more out of control.
You want to change the world? Forget about it because the world is one hard headed mofo and the blood and grease on our hands is only going to get thicker because when push comes to shove we’re all Catholic priests with an altar boy or two in our closets.
These words are untoward. These words are broken, scarred and disassembled.
I’m no Mary Poppins and even if I was I would prefer you kept Lady Gaga and her duplicitous tributes to yourself.
The very first poem I ever wrote was about the moon. Before I die I hope to write a poem about shooting the moon. Groucho Marx was a poet. Karl Marx not so much, but I believe both men were dyed in the wool romantics.
Seems like everyone is writing their very own obituary these days.
They start with all of these verbose adjectives that leave you wondering who they’re even talking about and before you know it they’re out of breath and wishing they’d been put out to pasture long before the stars were torn down.
I want to die, but not because I am a fatalist but simply because I believe death will give me more of an edge. Please understand I am in no hurry to spiral off this mortal coil, but when it does happen I will lean into it like all good poets do.
Charles Cicirella
2/27/15
“Compartments that’s how we survive in this world.”
http://charlespoet.podomatic.com/entry/2015-03-08T13_56_53-07_00
Let’s make music like crickets.
I’m running out of good ideas.
The day the music died more
than just music breathed its last
breath.
We resemble our least favorable selves
when our backs are up against the wall.
She told me things about myself I could
hardly believe were true.
I’m running on empty and no top off
is going to save me.
We will not even come close to
breaking even if we insist on gambling
with our doppelgangers.
I sat next to her at a poetry reading
and everything sort of made sense
for the first time in decades.
The way I write is simple. I wait for the
words to advance and if they don’t I do
my best to stall before spilling the bloody
truth on the white shag rug. Believe what
you must. I still believe I am Christ the
Redeemer even though martyr complexes
are rarely worth the marble they are
chiseled from.
Put yourself in a compartment you will be
comfortable in for at least a millennium or
more. The help we seek quite often does
not come when expected so it’s best to be
cozy in one’s self-imposed isolation.
As we drove through the streets of Erie I
kept wondering why the plug hadn’t been
pulled years before.
Charles Cicirella
3/8/15
Let’s make music like crickets.
I’m running out of good ideas.
The day the music died more
than just music breathed its last
breath.
We resemble our least favorable selves
when our backs are up against the wall.
She told me things about myself I could
hardly believe were true.
I’m running on empty and no top off
is going to save me.
We will not even come close to
breaking even if we insist on gambling
with our doppelgangers.
I sat next to her at a poetry reading
and everything sort of made sense
for the first time in decades.
The way I write is simple. I wait for the
words to advance and if they don’t I do
my best to stall before spilling the bloody
truth on the white shag rug. Believe what
you must. I still believe I am Christ the
Redeemer even though martyr complexes
are rarely worth the marble they are
chiseled from.
Put yourself in a compartment you will be
comfortable in for at least a millennium or
more. The help we seek quite often does
not come when expected so it’s best to be
cozy in one’s self-imposed isolation.
As we drove through the streets of Erie I
kept wondering why the plug hadn’t been
pulled years before.
Charles Cicirella
3/8/15
Thursday, March 05, 2015
Noir
put the gun
in your mouth
pretend the
bullets are
cheese
and you
are a rat
swallow the barrel
you rat
pull the trigger
you rat
put the noose
around your neck
pretend
the rope
is
a Chicago neck-tie
and you are
being
interviewed
by
death
step up
you coward
step off
you coward
film noir
can get you
5 to 20
if you
don’t cover
your tracks
i know
you said
you’re a
film buff
but it’s
getting harder
and harder
to believe
a word
you say
these days
you
son
of
a
bitch
Charles Cicirella
3/5/15
in your mouth
pretend the
bullets are
cheese
and you
are a rat
swallow the barrel
you rat
pull the trigger
you rat
put the noose
around your neck
pretend
the rope
is
a Chicago neck-tie
and you are
being
interviewed
by
death
step up
you coward
step off
you coward
film noir
can get you
5 to 20
if you
don’t cover
your tracks
i know
you said
you’re a
film buff
but it’s
getting harder
and harder
to believe
a word
you say
these days
you
son
of
a
bitch
Charles Cicirella
3/5/15
Tuesday, March 03, 2015
Lose Your Footing
(For Darin Bulai)
http://charlespoet.podomatic.com/entry/2015-03-02T23_26_13-08_00
Basking in the American Graffiti moonlight.
A freeloading carpet bagging spirit-guide entrepreneur.
Slicing the uninherited wind into pieces and parts with a Cuisinart tongue mind-set
He commences soon after the werewolves have turned back into men and the vampires have retired to their subterranean motor-home coffins.
Broken and there is not enough Scotch Tape to repair these forsaken stigmata Romanesque ruinous wounds.
When staring up into the sky all that was there to fixate upon were clouds and more billowing clouds of thunder and thorn in the side Kabuki theatre political missteps.
Tired and listless like Sonny Liston after Cassius Clay beat the holy hell out of him in Miami Beach.
We’re all just miners mining for a heart of gold and a stampede of gold nugget words to ease us into our own desperate attempts for greatness or something resembling our better and less beleaguered Babe Ruth selves.
She wanted to sell my Star Wars collectibles because she believed she was owed a payday after putting up with all of my clinging and clawing behaviors. I warned her I possessed the claws of a sloth on sabbatical and was ready and willing to bring her down if it meant three square meals a day and a blow job on Presidents’ Day.
She was Pavlov and I was the dog salivating whenever she entered the room because I believed she was bringing me salvation or at the very least sustenance and a chew toy.
We were your typical broken record and I am sick and tired of how easy it is to now make a playlist, put it on shuffle and play it anywhere you like including the shower when you are drowning your sorrows in fifty shades of your own filth.
I believe in another life I was Sally Hemings and preferred it when Thomas Jefferson, Father of Democracy would give it to me from behind so I wouldn’t have to watch as his face scrunched up like a Red Delicious apple right before he climaxed inside like any free man has a tendency to do when sodomizing a slave they foolishly believe they own.
Kilroy was here or at least I think he was here. It is hard to keep track of his comings and goings when he is still so popular and every wall desires a piece of him.
He writes like the unseen wind and I cannot wait till I can put on a cloak of invisibility and lose myself in a lion’s share of his word puzzle requiems for a persona non grata quest for the Holy truncated Grail.
Charles Cicirella
2/28/15
http://charlespoet.podomatic.com/entry/2015-03-02T23_26_13-08_00
Basking in the American Graffiti moonlight.
A freeloading carpet bagging spirit-guide entrepreneur.
Slicing the uninherited wind into pieces and parts with a Cuisinart tongue mind-set
He commences soon after the werewolves have turned back into men and the vampires have retired to their subterranean motor-home coffins.
Broken and there is not enough Scotch Tape to repair these forsaken stigmata Romanesque ruinous wounds.
When staring up into the sky all that was there to fixate upon were clouds and more billowing clouds of thunder and thorn in the side Kabuki theatre political missteps.
Tired and listless like Sonny Liston after Cassius Clay beat the holy hell out of him in Miami Beach.
We’re all just miners mining for a heart of gold and a stampede of gold nugget words to ease us into our own desperate attempts for greatness or something resembling our better and less beleaguered Babe Ruth selves.
She wanted to sell my Star Wars collectibles because she believed she was owed a payday after putting up with all of my clinging and clawing behaviors. I warned her I possessed the claws of a sloth on sabbatical and was ready and willing to bring her down if it meant three square meals a day and a blow job on Presidents’ Day.
She was Pavlov and I was the dog salivating whenever she entered the room because I believed she was bringing me salvation or at the very least sustenance and a chew toy.
We were your typical broken record and I am sick and tired of how easy it is to now make a playlist, put it on shuffle and play it anywhere you like including the shower when you are drowning your sorrows in fifty shades of your own filth.
I believe in another life I was Sally Hemings and preferred it when Thomas Jefferson, Father of Democracy would give it to me from behind so I wouldn’t have to watch as his face scrunched up like a Red Delicious apple right before he climaxed inside like any free man has a tendency to do when sodomizing a slave they foolishly believe they own.
Kilroy was here or at least I think he was here. It is hard to keep track of his comings and goings when he is still so popular and every wall desires a piece of him.
He writes like the unseen wind and I cannot wait till I can put on a cloak of invisibility and lose myself in a lion’s share of his word puzzle requiems for a persona non grata quest for the Holy truncated Grail.
Charles Cicirella
2/28/15
Friday, February 27, 2015
"the creaking and weathervane sound of it"
going to watch “The Walking Dead”/ eat a Baby Ruth / makes me happy and somewhat grounded / can’t keep up with the jones / they’re either too fast, too slippery or both / the status quo can go to hell / i’m okay with whatever this nothingness misrepresents / trying to write freer like my friend Joni / of course if i’m trying then I have already failed / was in Minnesota at a post office and i remember Jayne only being able to write with a certain color pen / made me feel closer to her knowing she had quirks just like i have quirks and whatever was verboten in the next room would have probably made us both uncomfortable and wishing we had not touched the remote control / “The Walking Dead” is over and i am at a loss for words / the Baby Ruth was okay, but probably should have gotten a Snickers instead / tired of filling myself up with sugar and having no clue when the next pizza will be delivered / have to somehow find a way back into the elephant cage before everything is left of center / heard the creaking of the rusted and god forsaken weathervane / it sounded like a crow being murdered and not in a good way / fuck everybody who doesn’t believe in god and fuck everybody who believes that they are god and that a martyr syndrome is somehow a means to an end
Charles Cicirella
2/24/15
Charles Cicirella
2/24/15
Saturday, February 21, 2015
Bargaining
http://charlespoet.podomatic.com/entry/2015-02-21T01_22_30-08_00
Full of bluster.
Full of terror.
Full of crap.
This might be another poem.
This might be a cry for kindness.
This is not a suicide note.
Tired of beginnings.
Tired of endings.
Tired of being caught in the middle.
Full of whimsy.
Full of lust.
Full of spinach.
This may be overwrought.
This may be undercooked.
This is not made up in the least little bit.
Full of questions.
Full of wonder.
Full of light.
Charles Cicirella
2/21/15
Full of bluster.
Full of terror.
Full of crap.
This might be another poem.
This might be a cry for kindness.
This is not a suicide note.
Tired of beginnings.
Tired of endings.
Tired of being caught in the middle.
Full of whimsy.
Full of lust.
Full of spinach.
This may be overwrought.
This may be undercooked.
This is not made up in the least little bit.
Full of questions.
Full of wonder.
Full of light.
Charles Cicirella
2/21/15
Friday, February 20, 2015
Soule
http://charlespoet.podomatic.com/entry/2015-02-20T13_09_22-08_00
You write your soul, but still no one seems to get you.
They make fun of you or ignore you completely.
It’s like high school all over again and no one wants to sit with you at lunch.
Most of the time I don’t have a clue what I am talking about and for great intellects I’d much rather put a sock in it than try and make sense out of the equation my brain is sorting out.
I like doughnuts with chocolate frosting and white crème and no that’s not a euphemism.
If I’ve been a good boy I don’t see why I can’t have my cake and eat it too because we all deserve to live a little even if we’re without a job and living on someone else’s dime.
You paint your own tyranny of the empty room, but no one seems to be paying any attention.
They go on and on about the next big thing when the next big thing is you and that has been true from the moment you were created and started painting with your fingers.
We’re not celebrity artists. We’re in it for the long haul. No matter how many beguiling martyrs are forsaken and charming cult leaders go up in smoke?
Most of the time I am flat broke and flat on my back trying to find someone to converse with while watching one miserable television show after another because I find a short attention span more interesting than a long vacation abroad.
I have a taste for Chicken McNuggets even though when going to McDonald’s today I instead ordered two Filet-O-Fish sandwiches. I thought about ordering a McFlurry with OREO® Cookies when leaving but it was so cold outside I decided against it.
Junk food maintains me like phone sex sustains me because to be perfectly honest I am finding it far easier to turn the next phrase than to learn a new magic trick.
I am sorry for continually interrupting you when we’re on the phone. There’s no excuse for my being so rude it’s just knowing you is better than any drug I have ever ingested.
You feed my soul Joni Lynn Soule and like Oliver Twist “"Please, sir, I want some more."
Your fairy heart shines a light on my warlock soul. Reminding me why I’m still pressing down these keys and singing completely off key.
Charles Cicirella
2/20/15
You write your soul, but still no one seems to get you.
They make fun of you or ignore you completely.
It’s like high school all over again and no one wants to sit with you at lunch.
Most of the time I don’t have a clue what I am talking about and for great intellects I’d much rather put a sock in it than try and make sense out of the equation my brain is sorting out.
I like doughnuts with chocolate frosting and white crème and no that’s not a euphemism.
If I’ve been a good boy I don’t see why I can’t have my cake and eat it too because we all deserve to live a little even if we’re without a job and living on someone else’s dime.
You paint your own tyranny of the empty room, but no one seems to be paying any attention.
They go on and on about the next big thing when the next big thing is you and that has been true from the moment you were created and started painting with your fingers.
We’re not celebrity artists. We’re in it for the long haul. No matter how many beguiling martyrs are forsaken and charming cult leaders go up in smoke?
Most of the time I am flat broke and flat on my back trying to find someone to converse with while watching one miserable television show after another because I find a short attention span more interesting than a long vacation abroad.
I have a taste for Chicken McNuggets even though when going to McDonald’s today I instead ordered two Filet-O-Fish sandwiches. I thought about ordering a McFlurry with OREO® Cookies when leaving but it was so cold outside I decided against it.
Junk food maintains me like phone sex sustains me because to be perfectly honest I am finding it far easier to turn the next phrase than to learn a new magic trick.
I am sorry for continually interrupting you when we’re on the phone. There’s no excuse for my being so rude it’s just knowing you is better than any drug I have ever ingested.
You feed my soul Joni Lynn Soule and like Oliver Twist “"Please, sir, I want some more."
Your fairy heart shines a light on my warlock soul. Reminding me why I’m still pressing down these keys and singing completely off key.
Charles Cicirella
2/20/15
Thursday, February 19, 2015
Souls
We are naked.
We are sunsets.
We are seers.
I held this poem underwater.
It yapped like a pedigree beagle.
Water torture is not for patriots, mavericks or pussies.
We are burning.
We are Haley’s Comet.
We are storytellers.
I held this poem up to the light.
It shined brighter than any super nova.
Rainbows are for leprechauns, munchkins and torch singers.
We are livewires.
We are lightning in a bottle.
We are stigmata.
Charles Cicirella
2/19/15
We are sunsets.
We are seers.
I held this poem underwater.
It yapped like a pedigree beagle.
Water torture is not for patriots, mavericks or pussies.
We are burning.
We are Haley’s Comet.
We are storytellers.
I held this poem up to the light.
It shined brighter than any super nova.
Rainbows are for leprechauns, munchkins and torch singers.
We are livewires.
We are lightning in a bottle.
We are stigmata.
Charles Cicirella
2/19/15
Monday, February 16, 2015
Brick and Mortar
I’m feeling like shit. It
just happened or maybe it’s always just happening.
And there are no words.
Except for these words and these words are not proving to be of much comfort.
I’m not a carpenter. I am
just a person. A person who is feeling equal amounts shame and disgust for
whatever it is they’re unbecoming. Its Kafkaesque this metamorphosis from
person to bug to something I cannot even recognize or reconcile lying next to
any longer.
You were brilliant and you
were going to save me. Until I realized I needed to do my own saving and
Lifesavers are only worth sucking when they’re cherry flavored or maybe coconut
if you’re in that kind of mood.
Do you remember Hubba
Bubba Bubble Gum? I still can recall the Friendly Drugstore on Mayfield Road in
South Euclid. This was before CVS and Walgreens bled the life out of what a
family drugstore actually was. A place you felt comfortable going to when you
needed a quick pick me up and to see a familiar face.
I miss Powerhouse candy
bars. I miss asking you what time it is and you giving me some made up answer
because you always knew I could care less what time it really was.
I’m feeling like complete
crap. I am tired of being called out on the carpet for dreams that have turned
into dried flowers pressed in a book like the Bible but far less bloody or
compelling.
One word will hopefully
lead to the next and then to the next and before you know it you’ve crossed a bridge
and a poem is nearly completed.
I’m not a patriot. I am
just a person who would go live in another country if I had the money and the
wherewithal to pick myself up and get the heck out of Dodge. America the
Beautiful keeps going on and on about its special brand of exceptionalism when
all I see are a bunch of translucent hipsters cozying up to whatever is
convenient at that particular moment as mediocrity rains down upon them like
Froyo and fifty shades of vomit.
Charles Cicirella
2/16/15
Saturday, February 14, 2015
Lincoln Logs
I’ve built a fortress around me with words and whatnot.
My first memory is being inside a house. Everything is low-spirited.
I feel sad because no one ever seemed to want to hang out with me.
I told her to use her words not emoticons or silly ass stickers.
When she sings the Pony Express gallops from her throat as messages are delivered.
I’ll never forget how we nearly died from inhaling oil paint and turpentine fumes.
I’m not in control. In fact I’m out of control.
My mother asked me why I’m sleeping so much. I started thinking perhaps it’s because I’m depressed or maybe I’m just tired from doing nothing but waiting for the miracle to come.
The Lincoln Logs felt good in my hands. They reminded me how things fit together especially when unfit and in need of love and Elmer’s Glue.
Many people believe they are artists, but few burn hot enough to create anything actually transformative.
We are phoenixes and we rise from the ashes unguarded and empty of any deceit.
I’m not proud of how many bridges I have burned. I’m not proud of much these days except what I have pulled together from words and whatnot.
Charles Cicirella
2/14/15
My first memory is being inside a house. Everything is low-spirited.
I feel sad because no one ever seemed to want to hang out with me.
I told her to use her words not emoticons or silly ass stickers.
When she sings the Pony Express gallops from her throat as messages are delivered.
I’ll never forget how we nearly died from inhaling oil paint and turpentine fumes.
I’m not in control. In fact I’m out of control.
My mother asked me why I’m sleeping so much. I started thinking perhaps it’s because I’m depressed or maybe I’m just tired from doing nothing but waiting for the miracle to come.
The Lincoln Logs felt good in my hands. They reminded me how things fit together especially when unfit and in need of love and Elmer’s Glue.
Many people believe they are artists, but few burn hot enough to create anything actually transformative.
We are phoenixes and we rise from the ashes unguarded and empty of any deceit.
I’m not proud of how many bridges I have burned. I’m not proud of much these days except what I have pulled together from words and whatnot.
Charles Cicirella
2/14/15
Friday, February 13, 2015
“I forgave her because it’s not over.”
Going to eat some unfrosted strawberry Pop-Tarts.
The frosted ones have never made much sense to me.
I remember breaking like an egg when you called me a coward.
I remember feeling like a chicken the first time I cracked open an egg with blood in it.
I ate the Pop-Tarts.
I drank the Coca-Cola.
And truth be told I don’t feel very good.
In fact in about thirty minutes I may need to take an Alka-Seltzer Heartburn+Gas ReliefChews Tropical Punch Chewable Tablet.
These words like all words leave a stain.
These words like all words brandish a worthless objection.
I’m sick and I’m tired of being a conscientious objector.
I’m sick and I’m tired of laying a bet on the dark horse.
Going to eat a grilled Bavarian ham and Swiss cheese sandwich on Jewish rye.
Any other rye just doesn’t make sense to me.
I remember the first time I went to a Jewish deli and how at home I felt.
I remember the first time I ate a hot pastrami and chopped liver sandwich on Jewish rye and how I knew immediately that would be my go to sandwich for the rest of my life.
These sentences like all sentences leave a bad aftertaste in my mouth.
These sentences like all sentences breakdown before they’ve even hit the page because they have no sense of purpose and are fed up with being out of work and feeling so much pent up rage.
Come here I want to spill a secret into your ear.
Come closer I promise to keep my hands to myself especially when our clothes are disseminated all over the floor like anorexic ghosts and our fucking is devoid of rhythm or for that matter a worthy punchline.
Charles Cicirella
2/13/15
The frosted ones have never made much sense to me.
I remember breaking like an egg when you called me a coward.
I remember feeling like a chicken the first time I cracked open an egg with blood in it.
I ate the Pop-Tarts.
I drank the Coca-Cola.
And truth be told I don’t feel very good.
In fact in about thirty minutes I may need to take an Alka-Seltzer Heartburn+Gas ReliefChews Tropical Punch Chewable Tablet.
These words like all words leave a stain.
These words like all words brandish a worthless objection.
I’m sick and I’m tired of being a conscientious objector.
I’m sick and I’m tired of laying a bet on the dark horse.
Going to eat a grilled Bavarian ham and Swiss cheese sandwich on Jewish rye.
Any other rye just doesn’t make sense to me.
I remember the first time I went to a Jewish deli and how at home I felt.
I remember the first time I ate a hot pastrami and chopped liver sandwich on Jewish rye and how I knew immediately that would be my go to sandwich for the rest of my life.
These sentences like all sentences leave a bad aftertaste in my mouth.
These sentences like all sentences breakdown before they’ve even hit the page because they have no sense of purpose and are fed up with being out of work and feeling so much pent up rage.
Come here I want to spill a secret into your ear.
Come closer I promise to keep my hands to myself especially when our clothes are disseminated all over the floor like anorexic ghosts and our fucking is devoid of rhythm or for that matter a worthy punchline.
Charles Cicirella
2/13/15
Monday, February 09, 2015
I truly miss the water
The sound of blue green
Waves ,foam ,sand ,security
Living inside a small apartment
Two bedrooms four
very miserable people
Can't breathe each other's air we have too many
Similar inbred similarities
No escape from
The gene pools
living and dying
In this house
You said you were waiting
For something better or someone
Better to come along
A new house
The next door neighbor
Fishing on the deck
Catching catfish
Screaming ! throw it back !throw it back!
Blow fish ,the terrifying sad
Animal I've never seen. for that matter
All the fish were sad
And depressed
desperate for
Diversion in any shape or form
And the water is stable and strong
Except for the occasional tsunami
The empty pool
at Howard Johnson's
I threw up on my birthday cake
You laughed........ok this was
a tragic comedy
You always had the best sense of humor
Why didn't you ask me why
I threw up. This time
I could have told you
Cause the bright red and
Yellow balloons floated over
The unrecognizable concrete
With black lines and steps to nowhere
The connection of the balloons
And the waterless pool
Made a terrifying dream
Spaces of water terrifying beautiful
Mysterious, safe from restaurants
empty pools and claustrophobic
Mothers.
Joni Soule
Waves ,foam ,sand ,security
Living inside a small apartment
Two bedrooms four
very miserable people
Can't breathe each other's air we have too many
Similar inbred similarities
No escape from
The gene pools
living and dying
In this house
You said you were waiting
For something better or someone
Better to come along
A new house
The next door neighbor
Fishing on the deck
Catching catfish
Screaming ! throw it back !throw it back!
Blow fish ,the terrifying sad
Animal I've never seen. for that matter
All the fish were sad
And depressed
desperate for
Diversion in any shape or form
And the water is stable and strong
Except for the occasional tsunami
The empty pool
at Howard Johnson's
I threw up on my birthday cake
You laughed........ok this was
a tragic comedy
You always had the best sense of humor
Why didn't you ask me why
I threw up. This time
I could have told you
Cause the bright red and
Yellow balloons floated over
The unrecognizable concrete
With black lines and steps to nowhere
The connection of the balloons
And the waterless pool
Made a terrifying dream
Spaces of water terrifying beautiful
Mysterious, safe from restaurants
empty pools and claustrophobic
Mothers.
Joni Soule
Thursday, February 05, 2015
Beautiful red blood
I've known you
Since you were 18
I think? I met you
At Milos, at a strange building
glaring wide walls and high ceilings
I believe you took me on a tour
Into a room where you
Conducted open mics
You reminded me of T O Dye
A friend I knew in childhood
Who chased me around the house until my head
Lost direction and sense of space ,rammed
Itself into the corner wall, head hanging down on my mother's knee
And drops of deep red beautiful blood
Dripping drip drip drip drip on the green slate
I loved so much.
Joni Soule
Since you were 18
I think? I met you
At Milos, at a strange building
glaring wide walls and high ceilings
I believe you took me on a tour
Into a room where you
Conducted open mics
You reminded me of T O Dye
A friend I knew in childhood
Who chased me around the house until my head
Lost direction and sense of space ,rammed
Itself into the corner wall, head hanging down on my mother's knee
And drops of deep red beautiful blood
Dripping drip drip drip drip on the green slate
I loved so much.
Joni Soule
Good and Stoned
I want to get stoned.
I don’t need to get stoned. I just want to get stoned.
I so hope my friend will again bring me some pin joints.
It’s the only time I look forward to waiting for the man.
Unless I am getting a package from the big city and that’s happening less and less these days.
I want a pepperoni pizza.
I don’t need a pepperoni pizza. I just want a pepperoni pizza.
The coupons are sitting on the table and I so wish my mother would take the hint and order us a large pepperoni pizza and a two liter of coke.
It’s the only time I feel like talking to anyone.
When the delivery arrives I am on my feet and out the door faster than a speeding bullet.
My life lessons are not sinking in. And my survival instincts have been out to lunch since 2002.
I haven’t had steady employment for so long I’m not even sure if it’s day or night.
Please understand I am not bragging in the least little bit. In fact I am scared of the uncertainty of my future and why it is I am unable to make any plans stick.
My best friend died in 1998 and that surely took some wind out of my sails, but I know that’s hardly the reason I am at such a loss when it comes to living and thriving.
I’ve never used my being an artist as an excuse, justification or rationale for the piss poor way I get along and I refuse to start now.
I want to leave this place.
I don’t mean die or anything permanent like that. I just want to float for a little while and let my guard down and let my freak flag fly.
I so hope I’ll hear from my friend again soon. I am curious how his music projects are coming along.
We begin and we end with the sentences we construct from ether and bone. I know I’ve made a lasting impression. Now if only I could find the blueprints I left out in the pouring rain.
Charles Cicirella
2/4/15
I don’t need to get stoned. I just want to get stoned.
I so hope my friend will again bring me some pin joints.
It’s the only time I look forward to waiting for the man.
Unless I am getting a package from the big city and that’s happening less and less these days.
I want a pepperoni pizza.
I don’t need a pepperoni pizza. I just want a pepperoni pizza.
The coupons are sitting on the table and I so wish my mother would take the hint and order us a large pepperoni pizza and a two liter of coke.
It’s the only time I feel like talking to anyone.
When the delivery arrives I am on my feet and out the door faster than a speeding bullet.
My life lessons are not sinking in. And my survival instincts have been out to lunch since 2002.
I haven’t had steady employment for so long I’m not even sure if it’s day or night.
Please understand I am not bragging in the least little bit. In fact I am scared of the uncertainty of my future and why it is I am unable to make any plans stick.
My best friend died in 1998 and that surely took some wind out of my sails, but I know that’s hardly the reason I am at such a loss when it comes to living and thriving.
I’ve never used my being an artist as an excuse, justification or rationale for the piss poor way I get along and I refuse to start now.
I want to leave this place.
I don’t mean die or anything permanent like that. I just want to float for a little while and let my guard down and let my freak flag fly.
I so hope I’ll hear from my friend again soon. I am curious how his music projects are coming along.
We begin and we end with the sentences we construct from ether and bone. I know I’ve made a lasting impression. Now if only I could find the blueprints I left out in the pouring rain.
Charles Cicirella
2/4/15
Wednesday, February 04, 2015
Dr. Feel Nothing At All
(For Joni)
Where’s my highs?
I am tired of all these lows.
I desire some euphoria.
I’m tired of being bummed out and wishing I were dead.
Buddha came to me and told me to suck it up.
Jesus appeared before me and told me to live and let live.
Joan of Arc shot down from the sky like a lightning bolt and told me to never give up the fight.
Oscar the Grouch reminded me my childhood was not all locked cupboards and Jewish guilt.
Where’s my fifteen minutes?
I am tired of all these signals and warnings.
I desire some real desire.
I’m tired of being lost at sea and wish the sharks would devour me whole already.
Charles Cicirella
2/2/15
Where’s my highs?
I am tired of all these lows.
I desire some euphoria.
I’m tired of being bummed out and wishing I were dead.
Buddha came to me and told me to suck it up.
Jesus appeared before me and told me to live and let live.
Joan of Arc shot down from the sky like a lightning bolt and told me to never give up the fight.
Oscar the Grouch reminded me my childhood was not all locked cupboards and Jewish guilt.
Where’s my fifteen minutes?
I am tired of all these signals and warnings.
I desire some real desire.
I’m tired of being lost at sea and wish the sharks would devour me whole already.
Charles Cicirella
2/2/15
Monday, February 02, 2015
Building Blocks
Filling myself up with sugar.
I’m made out of Legos.
Paranoia my sunlight.
Sucrose the new crack.
I am a cheap Christmas toy. Batteries not included.
I am the general anesthesia you take for a surgical procedure.
I am the lap dancing Russian astrophysicist you believe will take you to the moon and back.
I am the thin blue line we goad ourselves into challenging in our most God forsaken of soap operas.
Filling myself up with revenge fantasies.
I’m made up of shit.
Intolerance my wedge issue.
Heroin the new heroine.
I am the old man and the sea. Bullets not included.
I am the reprobate you take for granted because my predilection for damnation hits too close to home for you.
I am the high school mascot you believe will cheer you up after you’ve been ravaged and left in the end zone like another under inflated pigskin.
I am the First Amendment protecting our free speech while doing absolutely nothing to protect ourselves from ourselves.
Filling myself up with sickness and disuse.
I’m made up of more not less.
Sadness my midnight hour.
Grey the new puce.
Charles Cicirella
2/1/15
I’m made out of Legos.
Paranoia my sunlight.
Sucrose the new crack.
I am a cheap Christmas toy. Batteries not included.
I am the general anesthesia you take for a surgical procedure.
I am the lap dancing Russian astrophysicist you believe will take you to the moon and back.
I am the thin blue line we goad ourselves into challenging in our most God forsaken of soap operas.
Filling myself up with revenge fantasies.
I’m made up of shit.
Intolerance my wedge issue.
Heroin the new heroine.
I am the old man and the sea. Bullets not included.
I am the reprobate you take for granted because my predilection for damnation hits too close to home for you.
I am the high school mascot you believe will cheer you up after you’ve been ravaged and left in the end zone like another under inflated pigskin.
I am the First Amendment protecting our free speech while doing absolutely nothing to protect ourselves from ourselves.
Filling myself up with sickness and disuse.
I’m made up of more not less.
Sadness my midnight hour.
Grey the new puce.
Charles Cicirella
2/1/15
Saturday, January 31, 2015
Cascade
I desire to paint you unclothed in my closeted mind.
I so badly want to witness your belly button. Which I believe resembles da Vinci’s The Last Supper minus the religious overtones.
I need to bowl a strike with you naked while drinking Guinness straight from the leprechaun’s engorged penis.
I’m not one for pussy footing around and when it comes to small talk you can count me out.
We could stand around having a pissing contest to see who has the greater intellect or we can call it a draw and get down to watching Netflix in bed while eating Chinese food and lowering our guards.
I used to believe in a second coming before finally accepting women have men beat hands down when it comes to multiple orgasms and the heavy lifting of hostage negotiations.
I am drawn to you like a moth to a flame. Drawn to you like Welch's 100% Grape Juice to a Valentino lace blouse.
I desire to sculpt you with the most unarchaic of prose.
I so badly want to not want you and know I am barking up the wrong tree. Which I believe resembles Bob Ross’s “happy little trees” minus the public broadcasting.
I need to give my wanton desires a break, go to a bar, order a Coca Cola and throw some darts. Think about something, anything other than you standing there on fire in the freezing rain.
Charles Cicirella
1/25/15
I so badly want to witness your belly button. Which I believe resembles da Vinci’s The Last Supper minus the religious overtones.
I need to bowl a strike with you naked while drinking Guinness straight from the leprechaun’s engorged penis.
I’m not one for pussy footing around and when it comes to small talk you can count me out.
We could stand around having a pissing contest to see who has the greater intellect or we can call it a draw and get down to watching Netflix in bed while eating Chinese food and lowering our guards.
I used to believe in a second coming before finally accepting women have men beat hands down when it comes to multiple orgasms and the heavy lifting of hostage negotiations.
I am drawn to you like a moth to a flame. Drawn to you like Welch's 100% Grape Juice to a Valentino lace blouse.
I desire to sculpt you with the most unarchaic of prose.
I so badly want to not want you and know I am barking up the wrong tree. Which I believe resembles Bob Ross’s “happy little trees” minus the public broadcasting.
I need to give my wanton desires a break, go to a bar, order a Coca Cola and throw some darts. Think about something, anything other than you standing there on fire in the freezing rain.
Charles Cicirella
1/25/15
Tuesday, January 20, 2015
Slumlord
Take off your tee-shirt.
You know how much I love your small breasts.
I promise to suck on one at a time even though they’d both fit easily into my big mouth.
Take off your leggings.
You know how much I’ve always loved your plum shaped ass.
I promise no funny business until you’re completely naked and found something we both can watch on television.
There’s no disputing that when we dated it was like an anti-Semite and a Jew hanging out while cities burned and America lost its new car smell.
There’s no denying how freakish I acted when you found someone else to carve pumpkins with.
I’ll never forget that pay phone on King Avenue and repeatedly hitting myself in the head with the handset when you hung up for the final time.
They tore down the apartment building of our love because we were slumlords of our own desperate and deplorable fantasies.
They built a 7-Eleven on the sacred ground where we once fucked like two malnourished bunny rabbits strung out on Camel cigarettes and Krispy Kreme Doughnuts.
I always believed that you were out of my league and I have this gnawing, sick feeling you felt the same as we exited the war-torn structure admitting to nothing while writing our poetry in blood and other less favorable liquid refreshments.
Charles Cicirella
1/17/15
You know how much I love your small breasts.
I promise to suck on one at a time even though they’d both fit easily into my big mouth.
Take off your leggings.
You know how much I’ve always loved your plum shaped ass.
I promise no funny business until you’re completely naked and found something we both can watch on television.
There’s no disputing that when we dated it was like an anti-Semite and a Jew hanging out while cities burned and America lost its new car smell.
There’s no denying how freakish I acted when you found someone else to carve pumpkins with.
I’ll never forget that pay phone on King Avenue and repeatedly hitting myself in the head with the handset when you hung up for the final time.
They tore down the apartment building of our love because we were slumlords of our own desperate and deplorable fantasies.
They built a 7-Eleven on the sacred ground where we once fucked like two malnourished bunny rabbits strung out on Camel cigarettes and Krispy Kreme Doughnuts.
I always believed that you were out of my league and I have this gnawing, sick feeling you felt the same as we exited the war-torn structure admitting to nothing while writing our poetry in blood and other less favorable liquid refreshments.
Charles Cicirella
1/17/15
Thursday, January 15, 2015
Disjointed
Proof of purchase.
Gift receipt.
Liberal intentions.
Conservative conjecture.
Tired of washing my mouth out with soap.
Tired of shielding my eyes from this appendage called a penis.
Tied of lashing out at ghosts and fairy godmothers.
I thought we had hammered out a deal.
I thought we had a plan in place that did not belittle or disrespect our core beliefs.
I have a tendency to overthink things until they’re buried deep in the earth where no one and nothing will ever reach them.
K-Y Jelly.
Family Ties.
Lionized antecedents.
Tattooed reparations.
Charles Cicirella
1/13/15
Gift receipt.
Liberal intentions.
Conservative conjecture.
Tired of washing my mouth out with soap.
Tired of shielding my eyes from this appendage called a penis.
Tied of lashing out at ghosts and fairy godmothers.
I thought we had hammered out a deal.
I thought we had a plan in place that did not belittle or disrespect our core beliefs.
I have a tendency to overthink things until they’re buried deep in the earth where no one and nothing will ever reach them.
K-Y Jelly.
Family Ties.
Lionized antecedents.
Tattooed reparations.
Charles Cicirella
1/13/15
Wednesday, January 14, 2015
I’m a little dump truck dropping a load.
In the bathroom dropping a load thinking about Elvis in the bathroom dropping a load and then dying.
Or maybe he wasn’t even in the bathroom to crap and just enjoyed some solitary time in the crapper like LBJ.
Scratch that because from what I’ve heard, LBJ would actually govern between grunts, and anyhow Nixon was more Elvis’s speed.
Was it the grilled peanut butter and banana sandwiches that helped push him over the edge?
Or maybe it was the 10,000 doses of uppers, downers, and assorted narcotics that Dr. Nick prescribed that really did Elvis in.
Of course, all of the public acclaim could not have helped when you are just a good old Southern boy who was probably more at home driving a truck and doing what his mother told him to do than playing the part of the King of Rock and Roll.
I can understand the bathroom becoming a sort of sanctuary, especially when he had a phone on either side of the commode. I bet there was even a TV in case he felt like some target practice as he sat there and waited for something to come down the pipe.
Celebrities are no different than everyday people except that after all of those years of being handed everything on a twenty-four karat gold platter, you become spoiled and entitled, and you even reek a little of your own misdeeds.
Paranoia can and will destroy you, especially when you squander the otherworldly talents you possess because life just became too large a burden for you to bear.
Charles Cicirella
1/14/15
Or maybe he wasn’t even in the bathroom to crap and just enjoyed some solitary time in the crapper like LBJ.
Scratch that because from what I’ve heard, LBJ would actually govern between grunts, and anyhow Nixon was more Elvis’s speed.
Was it the grilled peanut butter and banana sandwiches that helped push him over the edge?
Or maybe it was the 10,000 doses of uppers, downers, and assorted narcotics that Dr. Nick prescribed that really did Elvis in.
Of course, all of the public acclaim could not have helped when you are just a good old Southern boy who was probably more at home driving a truck and doing what his mother told him to do than playing the part of the King of Rock and Roll.
I can understand the bathroom becoming a sort of sanctuary, especially when he had a phone on either side of the commode. I bet there was even a TV in case he felt like some target practice as he sat there and waited for something to come down the pipe.
Celebrities are no different than everyday people except that after all of those years of being handed everything on a twenty-four karat gold platter, you become spoiled and entitled, and you even reek a little of your own misdeeds.
Paranoia can and will destroy you, especially when you squander the otherworldly talents you possess because life just became too large a burden for you to bear.
Charles Cicirella
1/14/15
Saturday, January 10, 2015
"Every Christmas is Last Christmas"
I don’t like what we did to the Native Americans.
I don’t agree with what we did to the Japanese.
America cannot have its cake and eat it too.
Charles Cicirella
1/10/15
I don’t agree with what we did to the Japanese.
America cannot have its cake and eat it too.
Charles Cicirella
1/10/15
Tuesday, January 06, 2015
Underwater
Submerged.
Encased in mercury.
I do the reach around to take my own temperature.
I prefer coffee enemas and my water torture to be ala carte.
I remember prom. The white tux and Michelle’s peach dress.
I am at a loss for words. More of a wallflower than a wildflower.
I’ve run aground. All of my excuses cut from the same dirty washcloth.
I am tired of coming up for air when everything on the surface is redundant and lacking depth.
Emerging.
Covered in memories.
I shove my fist up my own ass to see if I’m running hot or cold.
I prefer Patron "XO Cafe" Coffee Liqueur and my bartender to be without a sense of humor.
Charles Cicirella
12/31/2014
Encased in mercury.
I do the reach around to take my own temperature.
I prefer coffee enemas and my water torture to be ala carte.
I remember prom. The white tux and Michelle’s peach dress.
I am at a loss for words. More of a wallflower than a wildflower.
I’ve run aground. All of my excuses cut from the same dirty washcloth.
I am tired of coming up for air when everything on the surface is redundant and lacking depth.
Emerging.
Covered in memories.
I shove my fist up my own ass to see if I’m running hot or cold.
I prefer Patron "XO Cafe" Coffee Liqueur and my bartender to be without a sense of humor.
Charles Cicirella
12/31/2014
Intimacy
Personalized.
Emblematic.
Truth serum.
Preoccupation with being preoccupied.
Preventative medicine preventing the inevitable.
Four does crossing the street in the suburbs of America.
Wish list tattooed melodrama.
Mr. Mom dead from accidental hanging.
Overemphasis on dreaming about underdogs.
Too much information.
Intimate details shared on a need to know basis.
Leonard Cohen’s “Avalanche” - perfect song for the fetal position.
Charles Cicirella
12/31/14
Emblematic.
Truth serum.
Preoccupation with being preoccupied.
Preventative medicine preventing the inevitable.
Four does crossing the street in the suburbs of America.
Wish list tattooed melodrama.
Mr. Mom dead from accidental hanging.
Overemphasis on dreaming about underdogs.
Too much information.
Intimate details shared on a need to know basis.
Leonard Cohen’s “Avalanche” - perfect song for the fetal position.
Charles Cicirella
12/31/14
Moisten
Lines go through my head.
Some I write down. Others I wait until they are sharpened.
I remember when you broke the speed of sound.
Table scraps do not make for good poetry. Especially when all you eat are vegetables.
I like restaurants that give you a wet nap when you’re done with your meal. Rib joints are the best because it’s like a crime scene.
I remember the last time we played strip poker and how innocent you looked when you lost your last stitch of clothing.
Lines go through my head.
Some I scribble down. Others I wait until they’re baked in direct sunlight.
I remember when we first hooked up and how much of an expert you were at self-moistening and self-deprecation.
Charles Cicirella
12/28/14
Some I write down. Others I wait until they are sharpened.
I remember when you broke the speed of sound.
Table scraps do not make for good poetry. Especially when all you eat are vegetables.
I like restaurants that give you a wet nap when you’re done with your meal. Rib joints are the best because it’s like a crime scene.
I remember the last time we played strip poker and how innocent you looked when you lost your last stitch of clothing.
Lines go through my head.
Some I scribble down. Others I wait until they’re baked in direct sunlight.
I remember when we first hooked up and how much of an expert you were at self-moistening and self-deprecation.
Charles Cicirella
12/28/14
Wednesday, December 31, 2014
Take Off The Noose
Take off the noose, and
get comfortable. We may be here a while.
I wish I understood why
this poem is taking such a long time to write.
First there was a title,
then a couple of days later, the first line spilled out, and now two more lines
are making an appearance.
I have learned you take
what you can get. Sometimes all there is to eat is ramen noodles, then maybe if
you’re lucky a nice roasted chicken, and, if you’re really blessed, some
chocolate cake with a glass of Vitamin D milk to wash it all down with.
Inspiration comes, and
then is gone just as quick.
Go to the hardware store,
and buy some nice new rope so when you hang yourself, everything will go off
without a hitch.
I refuse to ignore
whatever gifts I may have been imbued with. The other day I thought about
jumping in front of a train but decided to put those plans on hold and to
instead enter The Magic Theatre ready to experience the fantasies that exist in
my mind.
I believe I may be both
one of the “suicides” and one of the “immortals” and that is why I am having
such a difficult time deciding what to do next.
Charles Cicirella
10/13/14
Sunday, December 28, 2014
Bell's Palsy
I’m finding spitting to be one of the hardest parts. That and only seeing out of my right eye. I have my left eye taped shut because it will not close on its own.
I’m a constant namedropper. It’s not something I am proud of. As a matter of fact, there is very little that I am proud of in these days of hacking coughs and hacked emails.
I’m thinking about having fried eggs for dinner. I like dipping the bread in the orange-yellow yolk and how it soaks in for the long haul.
I’m tapering off the steroids from the Bell’s palsy. Time to take two tablets and eat a tuna fish sandwich. I am going through some mild withdrawal, which I don’t mind too terribly much.
Let’s stop all this hemming and hawing and get down to what is really going on. I don’t have a clue where this poem is heading and I prefer it that way when it is you I’m lying next to in the brittle darkness.
Oftentimes when I wake up in the hand-me-down morning, it is really the late afternoon. My routine begins again checking emails, taking allergy medicine, and drinking Coca-Cola. I’m nothing if not a creature of habit. This poem may morph into something or it may just sputter out like some empty and tired old lawnmower.
Today for the first time in a week, my left eye is not taped shut, and I do not feel like a Cyclops.
We take our health for granted until we feel it slipping out of our grasp. I need to learn to be more grateful for all the good things that I have.
I spend too much time waiting for the other shoe to drop instead of simply enjoying the blessings of everyday breath and everyday beauty.
Charles Cicirella
12/21/14
I’m a constant namedropper. It’s not something I am proud of. As a matter of fact, there is very little that I am proud of in these days of hacking coughs and hacked emails.
I’m thinking about having fried eggs for dinner. I like dipping the bread in the orange-yellow yolk and how it soaks in for the long haul.
I’m tapering off the steroids from the Bell’s palsy. Time to take two tablets and eat a tuna fish sandwich. I am going through some mild withdrawal, which I don’t mind too terribly much.
Let’s stop all this hemming and hawing and get down to what is really going on. I don’t have a clue where this poem is heading and I prefer it that way when it is you I’m lying next to in the brittle darkness.
Oftentimes when I wake up in the hand-me-down morning, it is really the late afternoon. My routine begins again checking emails, taking allergy medicine, and drinking Coca-Cola. I’m nothing if not a creature of habit. This poem may morph into something or it may just sputter out like some empty and tired old lawnmower.
Today for the first time in a week, my left eye is not taped shut, and I do not feel like a Cyclops.
We take our health for granted until we feel it slipping out of our grasp. I need to learn to be more grateful for all the good things that I have.
I spend too much time waiting for the other shoe to drop instead of simply enjoying the blessings of everyday breath and everyday beauty.
Charles Cicirella
12/21/14
My Stream Has Greatly Improved Since Drinking More Water
(For Nichole)
She had to remind me to drink more water when I mentioned that my stream was intermittent. I am funny that way. All the truths that should be self-evident either are just out of reach or lost in a parallel universe.
Sometimes when I stand in front of the toilet getting ready to take a pee, I like to imagine myself as John Hancock signing The Declaration of Independence. Most of the time, though, I know that I am just another graffiti artist spraying the side of a boxcar door.
Usually I pee sitting down because it’s easier than having to constantly be wiping off the seat. I know I could just lift it up, but my aim has never been very good especially when my stream sometimes shoots in multiple directions.
Someway, somehow I’m trying to make things right in my own head. It is a difficult proposition, though, when everything is on fire and there is no fire extinguisher on hand. Lend me your ears, and I promise the lies I lay down will be fully pressed and wrinkle resistant.
She had to remind me to drink more water when I mentioned that my stream was suffering from stage fright. Not every performer works better under pressure, and that became painstakingly clear when only drips and drops of tinkle came out of my waterspout.
Sometimes when I stand in front of the toilet getting ready to take a pee, I like to imagine myself as an honest to God man and not just some arrested adolescent who is finding it hard to stand on his own two feet and take a proper piss.
Charles Cicirella
12/16/14
She had to remind me to drink more water when I mentioned that my stream was intermittent. I am funny that way. All the truths that should be self-evident either are just out of reach or lost in a parallel universe.
Sometimes when I stand in front of the toilet getting ready to take a pee, I like to imagine myself as John Hancock signing The Declaration of Independence. Most of the time, though, I know that I am just another graffiti artist spraying the side of a boxcar door.
Usually I pee sitting down because it’s easier than having to constantly be wiping off the seat. I know I could just lift it up, but my aim has never been very good especially when my stream sometimes shoots in multiple directions.
Someway, somehow I’m trying to make things right in my own head. It is a difficult proposition, though, when everything is on fire and there is no fire extinguisher on hand. Lend me your ears, and I promise the lies I lay down will be fully pressed and wrinkle resistant.
She had to remind me to drink more water when I mentioned that my stream was suffering from stage fright. Not every performer works better under pressure, and that became painstakingly clear when only drips and drops of tinkle came out of my waterspout.
Sometimes when I stand in front of the toilet getting ready to take a pee, I like to imagine myself as an honest to God man and not just some arrested adolescent who is finding it hard to stand on his own two feet and take a proper piss.
Charles Cicirella
12/16/14
Saturday, December 27, 2014
Let’s Eat Some Chocolate and Forget that Nobody Loves Us
I am not feeling sorry for myself.
I am just facing the truth.
I did not feel like watching WKRP in Cincinnati so I put on the record Highway 61 Revisited and for the first time in my life, I didn't feel so fucking alone.
We begin in a pool of muck and end up, if we are lucky, in that same muck. Holding someone's hand as the seizures pass through our brains like more breaking news white noise.
My body is falling apart, but I guess that is what happens even if you love Jesus and have renounced all false deities as petulant cocksuckers.
This poetry like a sticky candy cane noose around my neck reminds me just how little time any of us really have left. So Merry Fucking Christmas if you are a good consumer I mean Christian.
No one seems to get me or is willing to accept me for who I am.
Even those out on the fringes conspire to keep me out of the Nativity scene.
It's all right though because I have learned when life stops taking your calls perhaps it’s best you just call it a day, turn the record over and take another bite of the chocolate bar.
Charles Cicirella
12/25/14
I am just facing the truth.
I did not feel like watching WKRP in Cincinnati so I put on the record Highway 61 Revisited and for the first time in my life, I didn't feel so fucking alone.
We begin in a pool of muck and end up, if we are lucky, in that same muck. Holding someone's hand as the seizures pass through our brains like more breaking news white noise.
My body is falling apart, but I guess that is what happens even if you love Jesus and have renounced all false deities as petulant cocksuckers.
This poetry like a sticky candy cane noose around my neck reminds me just how little time any of us really have left. So Merry Fucking Christmas if you are a good consumer I mean Christian.
No one seems to get me or is willing to accept me for who I am.
Even those out on the fringes conspire to keep me out of the Nativity scene.
It's all right though because I have learned when life stops taking your calls perhaps it’s best you just call it a day, turn the record over and take another bite of the chocolate bar.
Charles Cicirella
12/25/14
Wednesday, December 24, 2014
"True Love Tends To Forget"
(For Bob Dylan’s invisible self)
It’s 2 AM, and I’m listening with headphones to Street Legal.
Ripped from the original vinyl, and yes that makes all of the difference.
I have never understood those who criticize this record.
It’s his voice that catches me off guard every time.
He sounds like he’s in the darkness with no rehabilitation or recovery in sight.
Maybe that’s the trouble. This record is too full of unvarnished truth and dire consequences with no smoke or mirrors to tamp down the flames as this man burns alive right before our unsympathetic ears.
What if Bob Dylan’s just a man and feels things just like any human being does?
What if Bob Dylan’s one of those truly rare artists who can take everything brewing inside of him and pour it onto the page with no self-restraint or self-censorship?
What if what Bob Dylan hears in his head is exactly what we are experiencing on this record?
There is absolutely nothing wrong with the original mix.
In fact I think the so called muddy sound just brings us closer to the alienated state of affairs this record slices through like a Jewish ninja hell-bent on self-reconstruction as they look for the cure or catchall to bring everything back into focus.
“If I’m there in the morning, baby, you’ll know I’ve survived.”
Charles Cicirella
9/23/14
It’s 2 AM, and I’m listening with headphones to Street Legal.
Ripped from the original vinyl, and yes that makes all of the difference.
I have never understood those who criticize this record.
It’s his voice that catches me off guard every time.
He sounds like he’s in the darkness with no rehabilitation or recovery in sight.
Maybe that’s the trouble. This record is too full of unvarnished truth and dire consequences with no smoke or mirrors to tamp down the flames as this man burns alive right before our unsympathetic ears.
What if Bob Dylan’s just a man and feels things just like any human being does?
What if Bob Dylan’s one of those truly rare artists who can take everything brewing inside of him and pour it onto the page with no self-restraint or self-censorship?
What if what Bob Dylan hears in his head is exactly what we are experiencing on this record?
There is absolutely nothing wrong with the original mix.
In fact I think the so called muddy sound just brings us closer to the alienated state of affairs this record slices through like a Jewish ninja hell-bent on self-reconstruction as they look for the cure or catchall to bring everything back into focus.
“If I’m there in the morning, baby, you’ll know I’ve survived.”
Charles Cicirella
9/23/14
Tuesday, December 23, 2014
"The Forest Is Mankind’s Nightmare"
This is your show. I am just the white elephant in the room.
I’m the red dragon on the merry-go-round everyone resists sitting upon but secretly wishes to shoot into their jelly baby veins.
This is your show, and I am just more collateral damage that refuses to accept that it’s dead.
Believe what you want. It won’t make a damn bit of difference when your stools are bloody and your doctor no longer returns your phone calls.
I elected for the surgery even though it was not elective surgery, and look at me now - just another bitter, dead atheist wishing they were a bland, alive Christian.
When your chosen status becomes a monkey on your back, that’s a good time to sell the farm and move to a city where no one knows your name or believes in your holier-than-thou status.
This is your show. I am just the rude house guest who refuses to vacuum and has eaten all of your Hot Pockets.
I’m the dragon you’ve been chasing long before Vietnam became a black eye the United States of Amnesia repeats every few years because occupation is the only language our government seems to understand.
This is your show, and I am just another Paddington orphan wishing someone would take me in from the cold and treat me like I was actually worth something.
Charles Cicirella
11/25/14
I’m the red dragon on the merry-go-round everyone resists sitting upon but secretly wishes to shoot into their jelly baby veins.
This is your show, and I am just more collateral damage that refuses to accept that it’s dead.
Believe what you want. It won’t make a damn bit of difference when your stools are bloody and your doctor no longer returns your phone calls.
I elected for the surgery even though it was not elective surgery, and look at me now - just another bitter, dead atheist wishing they were a bland, alive Christian.
When your chosen status becomes a monkey on your back, that’s a good time to sell the farm and move to a city where no one knows your name or believes in your holier-than-thou status.
This is your show. I am just the rude house guest who refuses to vacuum and has eaten all of your Hot Pockets.
I’m the dragon you’ve been chasing long before Vietnam became a black eye the United States of Amnesia repeats every few years because occupation is the only language our government seems to understand.
This is your show, and I am just another Paddington orphan wishing someone would take me in from the cold and treat me like I was actually worth something.
Charles Cicirella
11/25/14
Sunday, December 21, 2014
Witness
I must get back to work.
I must get back to doing the work that everyone sees as nothing but I know is everything.
Depression crashes right through the front door, and before you know it, you’re pushing up daisies or, worse yet, sleeping your life away.
We are the dreamers, and though we may appear stagnant, nothing could be further from the truth.
We are the provocateurs causing trouble the live long day, knowing that whistling while you work will only bring you that much closer to the graveyard.
We are the fast food slaves who refuse to serve you any longer because you’re obese and that zero trans-fat doesn’t seem to be doing you much good.
I’m sleeping on my mother’s floor at forty-five years old with no clue what to do next, but I swear I do have an end game. It’s just one I choose to keep even from myself.
I want to tell you how I feel, but being ignored on Facebook is somehow worse than being ignored in person.
I need something I can believe in. Someone I can sink my teeth into who will return the favor and make me feel alive again. I have all the belief in myself that one person can possibly muster, but still that is not nearly enough to carry me over the threshold and deliver me to the Promised Land. I am a witness though I swear to Christ what I’ve witnessed so far does not impress me, nor does it give me much faith in the living dead.
I must return to some semblance of normal.
I must stop feeling guilty for anything and everything I’ve ever done wrong. It’s not about pulling yourself up by your bootstraps but instead about keeping it together when the shit is constantly hitting the fan and even the shit has had enough.
This paralysis I have been wrestling with has begun to not feel so awful, and that is neither acceptable nor something I would wish on my worst enemy.
Charles Cicirella
12/1/14
I must get back to doing the work that everyone sees as nothing but I know is everything.
Depression crashes right through the front door, and before you know it, you’re pushing up daisies or, worse yet, sleeping your life away.
We are the dreamers, and though we may appear stagnant, nothing could be further from the truth.
We are the provocateurs causing trouble the live long day, knowing that whistling while you work will only bring you that much closer to the graveyard.
We are the fast food slaves who refuse to serve you any longer because you’re obese and that zero trans-fat doesn’t seem to be doing you much good.
I’m sleeping on my mother’s floor at forty-five years old with no clue what to do next, but I swear I do have an end game. It’s just one I choose to keep even from myself.
I want to tell you how I feel, but being ignored on Facebook is somehow worse than being ignored in person.
I need something I can believe in. Someone I can sink my teeth into who will return the favor and make me feel alive again. I have all the belief in myself that one person can possibly muster, but still that is not nearly enough to carry me over the threshold and deliver me to the Promised Land. I am a witness though I swear to Christ what I’ve witnessed so far does not impress me, nor does it give me much faith in the living dead.
I must return to some semblance of normal.
I must stop feeling guilty for anything and everything I’ve ever done wrong. It’s not about pulling yourself up by your bootstraps but instead about keeping it together when the shit is constantly hitting the fan and even the shit has had enough.
This paralysis I have been wrestling with has begun to not feel so awful, and that is neither acceptable nor something I would wish on my worst enemy.
Charles Cicirella
12/1/14
Thursday, December 04, 2014
Yummy
I’m just about ready to eat a bowl of ice-cream.
I have been preparing all week and, I am nearly ready to jump in and drop out.
It most definitely should be about the small things, especially when you cannot afford any of the larger things that you want.
I would like to go see more than one Bob Dylan concert this time around, but I cannot afford to, so I must accept this irritating fact like I must accept autumn is almost here and Christ was more than just a martyr or teacher trying to get tenure.
I would like to see genocide eradicated and for everyone to learn to get along or to at least ignore each other. There’s too much violence and too much dying and too many zealots preying upon the people with their dogmatic ignorance and dictatorial intolerance.
I would like to have bought a pint of Ben and Jerry’s Peanut Butter Cup Ice-cream, but instead had to settle for a half gallon of Friendly’s Chocolate Peanut Butter Cup because it was on sale and boutique ice-cream does not fit the bill when all of your bills are long past due.
I’m just about ready to tell her that I miss seeing her naked, but I know she won’t care.
I have been preparing all my life and am almost ready for the humiliation of once again coming up short when attempting to dunk my ball into her basket.
It shouldn’t be about size, but we all know that it is because size matters like money matters, and if you don’t have either one, you’ll be sitting on the bench waiting in vain for the coach to put you in.
Charles Cicirella
8/28/14
I have been preparing all week and, I am nearly ready to jump in and drop out.
It most definitely should be about the small things, especially when you cannot afford any of the larger things that you want.
I would like to go see more than one Bob Dylan concert this time around, but I cannot afford to, so I must accept this irritating fact like I must accept autumn is almost here and Christ was more than just a martyr or teacher trying to get tenure.
I would like to see genocide eradicated and for everyone to learn to get along or to at least ignore each other. There’s too much violence and too much dying and too many zealots preying upon the people with their dogmatic ignorance and dictatorial intolerance.
I would like to have bought a pint of Ben and Jerry’s Peanut Butter Cup Ice-cream, but instead had to settle for a half gallon of Friendly’s Chocolate Peanut Butter Cup because it was on sale and boutique ice-cream does not fit the bill when all of your bills are long past due.
I’m just about ready to tell her that I miss seeing her naked, but I know she won’t care.
I have been preparing all my life and am almost ready for the humiliation of once again coming up short when attempting to dunk my ball into her basket.
It shouldn’t be about size, but we all know that it is because size matters like money matters, and if you don’t have either one, you’ll be sitting on the bench waiting in vain for the coach to put you in.
Charles Cicirella
8/28/14
In My Tummy
I ate a bowl of ice-cream and was happy for about fifteen minutes.
I watched a porno and was happy for about fifteen minutes.
I sat down in front of the laptop to write this poem and was lost in thought for about fifteen minutes.
I’m going out of my head and wish there was someone I could talk to.
I’m not really thinking about a therapist because I’d just end up arguing with them and would never take the prescribed medication for whatever is supposedly wrong with my head.
I’m pretty sure I have driven away most of the people who were once close friends because I have a tendency to talk at people instead of holding an actual conversation where two parties play equal parts.
I’m so fucking isolated, and it’s not doing me any good.
I’m so fucking inside my own head, and it’s bound to kill me dead.
I’m so fucking tired of being sick and tired and keep thinking about what my final act will be like.
I ate an Alka-Seltzer Fruit Chews, and my acid indigestion subsided for about fifteen minutes.
I thought about calling you, and that occupied my thought process for about fifteen minutes.
I sat down in front of the laptop to revise this poem, and was lost in the profundity of the moment for about a minute and a half.
Charles Cicirella
8/29/14
I watched a porno and was happy for about fifteen minutes.
I sat down in front of the laptop to write this poem and was lost in thought for about fifteen minutes.
I’m going out of my head and wish there was someone I could talk to.
I’m not really thinking about a therapist because I’d just end up arguing with them and would never take the prescribed medication for whatever is supposedly wrong with my head.
I’m pretty sure I have driven away most of the people who were once close friends because I have a tendency to talk at people instead of holding an actual conversation where two parties play equal parts.
I’m so fucking isolated, and it’s not doing me any good.
I’m so fucking inside my own head, and it’s bound to kill me dead.
I’m so fucking tired of being sick and tired and keep thinking about what my final act will be like.
I ate an Alka-Seltzer Fruit Chews, and my acid indigestion subsided for about fifteen minutes.
I thought about calling you, and that occupied my thought process for about fifteen minutes.
I sat down in front of the laptop to revise this poem, and was lost in the profundity of the moment for about a minute and a half.
Charles Cicirella
8/29/14
Wednesday, December 03, 2014
Chicken Wings
My lips are burning from the Buffalo wing sauce.
I still want to try the spicy chicken wings at this Chinese restaurant in Chicago.
The first time I ever ate chicken wings was when I was working at JR Miggs in Columbus, Ohio.
We bask in the complex simplicity of our lives when what we need to be doing is asking the hard questions like why is everything so messed up.
We need to wake up and smell the coffee and begin wrapping our heads around the fact that capitalism is failing us and democracy is a big fat lie.
What happened to the division of church and state? And why are we allowing any religious group the right to decide our rights for us? Jesus Christ was a teacher and a Jew. Not a politician or a Christian.
I don’t have a clue what this poem is about or why I started talking about chicken wings and then morphed into how fucked up things are.
Perhaps the state of the world and the state of my chicken wings has something in common, or maybe I am just losing my mind one tasty chicken wing at a time.
I got extra bleu cheese dressing to bath the Buffalo wings in. I must admit that biting into a chunk of bleu cheese and then tasting that flaming hot Buffalo wing sauce is quite a diabolical and richly rewarding combination.
Soon I’ll be returning to Chicago, and I really do hope I can talk my friend into returning to that Chinese restaurant in Albany Park because their spicy pork is damn near as good as it gets.
Charles Cicirella
10/5/14
I still want to try the spicy chicken wings at this Chinese restaurant in Chicago.
The first time I ever ate chicken wings was when I was working at JR Miggs in Columbus, Ohio.
We bask in the complex simplicity of our lives when what we need to be doing is asking the hard questions like why is everything so messed up.
We need to wake up and smell the coffee and begin wrapping our heads around the fact that capitalism is failing us and democracy is a big fat lie.
What happened to the division of church and state? And why are we allowing any religious group the right to decide our rights for us? Jesus Christ was a teacher and a Jew. Not a politician or a Christian.
I don’t have a clue what this poem is about or why I started talking about chicken wings and then morphed into how fucked up things are.
Perhaps the state of the world and the state of my chicken wings has something in common, or maybe I am just losing my mind one tasty chicken wing at a time.
I got extra bleu cheese dressing to bath the Buffalo wings in. I must admit that biting into a chunk of bleu cheese and then tasting that flaming hot Buffalo wing sauce is quite a diabolical and richly rewarding combination.
Soon I’ll be returning to Chicago, and I really do hope I can talk my friend into returning to that Chinese restaurant in Albany Park because their spicy pork is damn near as good as it gets.
Charles Cicirella
10/5/14
Tuesday, December 02, 2014
Breaking Bread
Breaking bread with our eyes wide open.
Miracles happen every day to everyone.
It doesn’t matter which wave you choose to ride because they’ll all bring you to the shore eventually.
There is a family dynamic about you that I picked up on from the first moment that we met.
I could tell that you like to take care of people, and I really hope you also allow people to take care of you.
When we were led out of Egypt, it’s you I would have wanted by my side because I know you wouldn’t have let anything bad happen to me. Plus you would have laughed at all of my inappropriate jokes.
I’ve never been a very strong swimmer so even when the Red Sea parted, I would have still wanted to hold the hand of someone who would have talked me through our crossing.
The desert is a deprived place that is not recommended to get lost in. The bootlegged sun will have you hallucinating before you know it.
I believe even Moses must have had some serious second thoughts as he brought his people forth into a land where nothing was what it appeared to be.
It goes without saying that listening to a strange burning bush will oftentimes get you into trouble, regardless if your intentions are good and you believe in this vision quest.
Breaking down because everything seems hopeless and without a solution in sight.
“Trust yourself to find the path where there is no if and when.”
You are the miracle breaking through a new level of consciousness with every step that you take. There is strength, there is love, and there is so much healing beauty in your readiness to evolve.
Charles Cicirella
10/5/14
Miracles happen every day to everyone.
It doesn’t matter which wave you choose to ride because they’ll all bring you to the shore eventually.
There is a family dynamic about you that I picked up on from the first moment that we met.
I could tell that you like to take care of people, and I really hope you also allow people to take care of you.
When we were led out of Egypt, it’s you I would have wanted by my side because I know you wouldn’t have let anything bad happen to me. Plus you would have laughed at all of my inappropriate jokes.
I’ve never been a very strong swimmer so even when the Red Sea parted, I would have still wanted to hold the hand of someone who would have talked me through our crossing.
The desert is a deprived place that is not recommended to get lost in. The bootlegged sun will have you hallucinating before you know it.
I believe even Moses must have had some serious second thoughts as he brought his people forth into a land where nothing was what it appeared to be.
It goes without saying that listening to a strange burning bush will oftentimes get you into trouble, regardless if your intentions are good and you believe in this vision quest.
Breaking down because everything seems hopeless and without a solution in sight.
“Trust yourself to find the path where there is no if and when.”
You are the miracle breaking through a new level of consciousness with every step that you take. There is strength, there is love, and there is so much healing beauty in your readiness to evolve.
Charles Cicirella
10/5/14
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