Fever Dream

http://charlespoet.podomatic.com/entry/2015-10-23T19_22_48-07_00

My last fever dream was a real doozy.

I can hardly remember it and yet still I’m reeling.

It was in Rome and I was doing like all the other Romans were doing until I wasn’t and the shit started running down my legs like an uncomfortable plot twist.

You can pretend we don’t get along.

You can continue to say you don’t do emotional attachments.

And yet your actions speak louder than your quiet words when the phone rings and it says private or unknown number.

It was pitch dark and I was listening to Darin Bulai’s soundtrack in my head.

His vinyl poetry and sonic-screaming-soapbox-sermons keep my Pope-On-a-Rope Soap bobbing and weaving and that’s a very good thing when bending over might just get me an unwelcomed poking in the nether regions of my subterranean undercard.

Let’s start back at the beginning when babies had that new car smell and your car couldn’t drive you back and forth to the medical marijuana dispensary because you discovered it was the only way to take the edge off this thing called survival of the wickedest.

My last fever dream nearly landed me in the pokey.

Not even sure what I was thinking, but before I knew it I was dressed up like a ninja and my stealth moves would have impressed both Fred and Ginger.

It was in Paris, Texas and I was doing like all the other Marlboro cowboys taking a drag off my cigarette and pretending I wasn’t afraid of dying of lung cancer or some worse malady, when all of a sudden you appeared before me like Glinda the Good Witch of the South and everything seemed like it might just work out as I had planned when I was young and free will didn’t feel like such a left handed compliment.

Charles Cicirella

10/23/15

Outside the Realm of Possibility (For Terry Provost)

http://charlespoet.podomatic.com/entry/2015-10-20T22_35_06-07_00

I missed the mark.

I could not find the g-spot of this poem.

I looked and looked.

I looked high and low.

This poem is androgynous.

This poem claims no sexual orientation.

This poem is a Barbie or Ken doll.

This poem will whip you for stepping over the line.

This poem is a chalk outline of its former self.

This poem is chivalrous and believes in holding the revolving door open for everybody.

This poem will do no harm.

This poems eradicates evil by simply coloring outside the lines.

I missed the point.

I could not find the strength to save myself so I named names and became a pariah.

I wished and wished.

I wished on a shooting star and a tortilla chip that resembled our savior.

This poem is apolitical.

This poem resists the notion of holding any type of office whatsoever.

This poem is a tall drink of water and a cheap shot to the ribs.

This poem will give you a standing ovation for standing up to the ghosts in the machine.

This poem is a loaded gun and a not so surprising admission of guilt.

This poem is argumentative and will filibuster if and when the fan blades begin to spin.

This poem will beat you down for looking at it when it bites into a sandwich.

This poem is truth serum injected into your milk-blood when you’re on the losing end.

Charles Cicirella

10/12/15

I Took a Piss

http://charlespoet.podomatic.com/entry/2015-10-20T21_54_30-07_00

I drained my snapdragon.

And it felt good.

And I even felt somewhat righteous standing there like an adjunct professor.

Don’t remind me of the time when I carried your books to and from school.

Or when I bought you unfiltered Camels because you were too high minded to walk into that carryout on 5^th. Avenue and pretend you were just like everybody else.

I remember penetrating you on that swivel chair as I pinned back your butterfly wings and called you my little Crêpe Suzette.

Some journeys last a lifetime while others are over in the blink of an eye.

I used to be so uncomfortable with the remorse and regret I felt after an orgasm. Now those feelings are the best part of the trip because the French are correct an orgasm is "the little death" and I love feeling my mortality covering my hands like Super Glue.

I’m reminded every single day that the choices I’m making are the wrong ones and that’s okay because I’m not here to win any popularity contests. I just want to succeed or fail on my own terms. Take a piss or shit on my own terms. Experience love and loss on my own terms. So there.

Charles Cicirella

10/11/15

Knee Deep

http://charlespoet.podomatic.com/entry/2015-10-17T14_04_44-07_00
 

Knee deep in shit.

Knee deep in your shit.

And trust me I have plenty of my own.

I am a rodeo clown.

I am a broken toy from the Island of Misfit Toys.

I don’t trust Caitlyn Jenner.

You know what they say about too many poets in the kitchen.

The water never boils and Chicken Soup for the Soul is just another poor excuse to self-medicate and then blame someone else for your troubles and woes.

I heard that lonesome whistle blow then I got on that train because moving is always better than standing still especially when you have nothing left to say.

Knee deep in callus reminders of you and your intolerance toward people who wear white after Labor Day.

I’m so pissed off, but I guess that’s better than being pissed on. Golden showers have never made any sense to me. I mean it’s bad enough when you soil yourself. Why would you want someone else to soil you?

Makes perfect sense that Adolf liked Eva to shit on his chest. He deserved to be treated like a toilet and deep down in his Black Forest heart he knew it.

Charles Cicirella

10/1/15