“When your mother sends back all your invitations.”

http://charlespoet.podomatic.com/entry/2015-10-26T21_29_16-07_00

My friend says he fears death.

I believe he fears life.

Creativity can brand you.

Make you its little bitch and before you know it you’re breathing fire and rolling two hundred miles per hour through the decades like a dervish or horse whisperer.

What happens when forty nine years later the words are not flowing like they once did?

What happens when “how does it feel” no longer resonates and the Shadows In The Dark are making you question what you once believed was written in “Rocks And Gravel?”

What happens when "The Dark End of the Street" and a dark night of the soul unite and no one is able to reach you?

What happens when the bubble you’ve existed in for so long appears ready to burst and you’re afraid to seek heavenly aid because you don’t want to be that poor little boy who cried wolf?

My friend says you fear death.

I believe you fear life and all the simple contradictions going along with it.

You turned music and the culture inside out then you got out of Dodge and almost died seeking shelter beneath a Nashville Skyline New Morning.

There’s Blood On The Tracks as you paint Another Self Portrait of a man you once met in a crowded room of faceless strangers. He wasn’t Mr. Jones or Dr. Filth. No, he was actually you in a different kind of guise and no one was the wiser when you pulled the plug and a “Brave New World” went completely dark.

Charles Cicirella

10/9/15

A Sense of Urgency

http://charlespoet.podomatic.com/entry/2015-10-26T21_05_09-07_00 

I feel it.

Do you?

Does it wash over you like blood and fury?

Let’s quit cold turkey.

Let’s do something different.

Let’s flip off the status quo and let our freak flags fly like big hairy kites in the cornflower blue skies.

I found it?

Did you?

Did it sneak up behind you and make your heart skip a beat?

I so badly wanted to stick my finger or penis inside of her but she said we didn’t know each other well enough and that it probably wouldn’t be a very good idea.

I asked her if she felt the same sense of urgency that I felt and she responded by looking deeply into my fistful of dollar eyes as she switched back on Turner Classic Movies.

We watched Mean Streets, Taxi Driver and Sunset Boulevard then we made love like two ravenous sharks in desperate need of a dolphin or sea lion.

I decided against it.

Either the world isn’t ready for me or I’m not ready for the world so I decided to call it a day and crawl back into my hermit crab shell.

Let’s exist beyond our meager means because I’m tired of eating only vanilla ice-cream and riding on Merry-Go-Rounds that do nothing except go around in circles.

Charles Cicirella

10/24/15

“Pussy on the Chain Wax” (For Michael & Casey)

http://charlespoet.podomatic.com/entry/2015-10-23T19_55_45-07_00
 

“Pussy on the chain wax.”

That’s what she said. I heard it with my own two ears.

Then she asked me to explain it to her so I did because I don’t believe in backing down from a challenge, including when we were in the Rally’s drive-thru and she screamed “Pussy on the chain wax” when the cashier rudely answered ‘No’ when asked if they took EBT. She upped the ante when she got out of the van and grinded against the concrete wall.

“Pussy on the chain wax.”

Sometimes the road dog bites you and sometimes you bite the road dog.

I’m cloaked in the fog of his Easy Rider charisma when he decrees his whacky, tuned in and entirely kindred-sermons on the wretchedness and hilarity of surviving one more day on menthols, photographic chemicals and the occasional roll in the imaginary hay.

He kicks me into overdrive when he steps out of the movie-screen-womb and takes me on a “Magic Carpet Ride.”

“Pussy on the chain wax.”

Charles Cicirella

10/7/2015