“Now faith is the substance of things hoped for, the evidence of things not seen.” Hebrews 11:1 King James Version

http://charlespoet.podomatic.com/entry/2015-10-01T00_04_18-07_00

Close your eyes.

Tell me what you don’t see.

It will be okay or it won’t. That’s not for us to say.

When is the last time you fell to your knees and prayed?

Do you remember the first time you asked for forgiveness and were washed clean of your sins?

There’s no more time for monkeying around. You’re either in or you’re out. That’s it. Game over.

We flaunt our excesses in plain view of God not caring that we’re repeat offenders and should be thankful for the life we’ve been given.

The Golden Calf’s got nothing on Jesus Christ Almighty and trust me when I say to you Noah was more than just some old Jew with a penchant for animals.

We must lift ourselves up from the muck and the mayhem and the wrecking ball nightmares that have kept us from peaceful slumber for most of our dilapidated and regifted lives.

Open your heart.

Tell me what you feel once you squeegee the tears and the blood from your rose tinted windshield.

It will be okay or it won’t. Who the fuck knows or cares when you’re down and out and nobody loves you and only God is willing to accept you into His House.

Charles Cicirella

9/28/15

Specimen under the Microscope

http://charlespoet.podomatic.com/entry/2015-09-30T23_43_22-07_00

I lie to myself each and every moment of each and every day.

I do it because it’s easier than telling the truth.

Of course that could just be another lie.

I was watching TV and I heard the word cogitate.

I liked the sound of it even though I didn’t know what it meant.

I looked it up and then I carefully pondered why that word so strongly resonates for me.

We were once chimpanzees.

It strikes me as rather odd that there are so many people that refuse to even entertain the notion that this might be true.

I also find it ironic that the people who are having such a difficult time with the theory of evolution are the very same people who are in desperate need of evolving.

Just opened another poetry rejection email.

I had to fight myself from responding and telling these idiots just how wrong they are.

I know I can write and that I most definitely have something to say it just becomes increasingly frustrating when too few people actually want to read or hear my words.

I lie to myself with alarming frequency.

I believe it has something to do with denial feeling so damn good.

In fact I am starting to think not coming clean has become my favorite pastime.

I was watching TV. Actually it was Netflix, but what’s really the bloody difference these days?

It’s one of the few ways I find myself able to switch off my mind and take a much needed break from all of these thoughts racing around my jailhouse brain.

I was a bank robber and when we met you were a teller and liked the note I had written telling you this was a bank robbery. We’re all specimens under the microscope some of us just find the petri dish more comfortable than others.

Charles Cicirella

9/22/15

“Slip Away” (For Lou)

http://charlespoet.podomatic.com/entry/2015-10-02T20_36_28-07_00

Should I eat the other Snickers in the frig?
Never met you, but I wish we had worked together.
Your original wrapper was black leather. I’d like to think mine is flannel, but it’s probably more like chicken feathers.

You were the original Rock 'n' Roll Animal.
The one Andy wanted to score and maybe he did when you were in need of something more than grotesque guidance or ripped to shreds inspiration.
I’ll never forget the Charlie Rose interview with you, Laurie and her dog. I was so moved by how you spoke of your working relationship with Drella. It made sense to me like so little else does.

We spin like a top or fizzle out like an egg cream. Either way we can fight the riptide as much as we like, but when our time is up there’s no arguing with the umpire.
You seemed able to withstand anything including electroshock therapy and whatever demons hunted you down and fucked you in the mouth when you were blonde and heroin was just another means to tempt fate and leave a young, but battered and weathered corpse in your stead.
The joke was on you as the Sword of Damocles hung above your head toward the end and the fog of wars fought underground became one more Coney Island memory.

I wanted you to hit me with a flower just one time but that was simply not to be.
It’s truly vicious how we never say what we feel. Thank God you never suffered from that sickness and always told it exactly how it is no matter the fallout or shit storm that followed.
I want to slip away. I want to “take the blue mask down from my face” and look you squarely in the eye without hesitation. I want to lay with you in a field of poppies and fall asleep like Romeo and Juliette did when they were young and time was still on their side.   
  
Charles Cicirella
9/30/15

Jailbreak #999

http://charlespoet.podomatic.com/entry/2015-09-30T12_13_13-07_00

This poem was trying to force itself inside of me.

It was the middle of the night. I was watching myself sleep and then all of a sudden I felt the consonants and vowels attempting to conquer me like some Trojan horse or Norse Invader.

There’s no way to prepare yourself for such an onslaught and before I knew it the gameshow Wheel of Fortune was having its way in my large intestine. Vanna just kept turning the letters like she did in the old days. Pat Sajak was his same goofy self.

She lived over Garcia’s Mexican Restaurant. I’ll never forget how incredible their chiles rellenos were before they got in trouble for tax evasion and child labor.

When I finally got to feast my eyes on her Midwestern breasts all I could think was it was well worth the wait. That is until she told me she had herpes and we had to stop.

I never seem to catch a break and perhaps I bring that on myself, but either way masturbation only gets you so far before you need contact with another human being.

This same poem later tried to turn the tables and say I took advantage of it which seemed rather unlikely seeing how my mouth was duct taped shut and my arms were pinned to my sides like wooden wings afraid to take flight.

This poem just another schoolyard bully as I now question why I created it; as I’m sure God often questions why he created the Christians, or Muslims or even the Jews when he’s had a truly awful day and kicking the can down Main Street is doing no one much good.

This poem needs a fourth verse, but I’m at a loss where it should be heading and I’m thinking Lincoln County Road is as good a place as any.

I’d ask you where we’re headin’, but what’s the point when I’ve recently discovered I cannot trust you and going it completely alone is the only way I may actually be able to find shelter from the storm.

The first time I ever set eyes on you it was amid a tsunami of words and unkempt layers of freshly laundered money. You had cocaine on your nipples and a spring in your step that kept me coming back for more. I’ll never forget when you finally had had enough and stood up to your oppressors. I wish I could learn from your example, but sadly I’m just another Hebrew poet wearing the skin of a cowardly lion.

Charles Cicirella

9/30/15