Squinting

http://charlespoet.podomatic.com/entry/2015-11-16T13_32_41-08_00

One word.

One footstep.

Christ the Savior.

Lucifer the Denier.

Here are these words.

Here is this bread.

Let’s not worry about consecration.

Let’s not burden ourselves over mirrored reflections of sin eaters feasting on our guilt and shame.

No more disclaimers.

No more sleepless nights seeking assurances that a childhood trauma wasn’t your fault.

Do you remember when we hugged for the first time and how it felt like things made some actualized sense?

Do you remember when you finally let go and told someone that you loved them and even more importantly when you heard those same words coming back to you?

A Church, Temple, Mosque they’re all just buildings.

God is in our hearts and nothing and no one can tear these beliefs asunder.

Charles Cicirella

11/16/15

Fuck Stigma (For Mikal)

http://charlespoet.podomatic.com/entry/2015-11-15T21_36_51-08_00

I know it’s easier said than done.

I know having to be reminded of memories you’d rather keep locked up in a vault is beyond excruciating and non-essential in these hard pressed and hard worn times.

I know you’re not a martyr, but try and keep in mind the stigmas Christ wrestled with when he was up there on that cross.

“Time passes slowly when you're lost in a dream.”

Just ask Zimmerman.

Just ask Jiminy Cricket when he was doing his best to convince Pinocchio‍ he was a real boy.

We all have a part to play.

At least that’s what I like to believe when denial has worn out its welcome and the darkness no longer comforts me like it once did.

We’re writers and I guess that’s a badge of honor if you’re into that sort of thing, but we both know that’s a waste of time and that being an Eagle Scout isn’t all it’s cracked up to be.

You wield the pen like a scalpel as you take the tiger by its tail and show William Blake whose boss and why a "Glad Day" isn’t just for the fallen any longer.

Sometimes dreams really do come true and you know exactly what I mean as you become enveloped in her silver lining and forget all about the gossipy clouds.

I’m channeling my inner orangutan as I sit here on the floor writing these words in Cleveland, Ohio and send them to you in Woodland Hills, California.

When the world breaks apart it also heals in pieces and parts.

The way you hear music and internalize music is no small feat and this blessing will continue to bless you no matter the weather breaking outside your window or inside your gaunt frame.

I know it’s easier said than done, but you’ve never been a pushover, no matter how difficult the memories are to face.

Charles Cicirella

11/15/15

I'm Listening

http://charlespoet.podomatic.com/entry/2015-11-15T21_22_49-08_00

 

I’m pretty sure I’ve written this poem before.

In fact I think I have written it several times, in different guises with lots of Vaseline around the blowhole. And let’s not forget the candy you used to entice her out of a dead marriage.

Some poets deserve to die many deaths before they’re finally put to bed with milk, cookies and a dog eared copy of War and Peace lying next to them like an inflatable sex doll or another excuse to torture themselves before falling asleep like an exhausted child.  

I’m listening with all of my faculties’ razor sharp and ready to rip into this gaunt, redolent feast like a poet who knows they’re about to expire so they best get as much paint out of the tube as they can before the buzzer goes off and Tom Wilson annoys you for simply doing his job.

I’m listening because you leave me no other choice as the jackals turn into sidemen right before your weathered Moby Dick eyes and even Gregory Peck wouldn’t be able to save you from this destiny you so doggedly pursued like Jack the Ripper on a tear.

You’re tired, I’m tired, I bet even those emptying the ashtrays are tired but you still have a sheaf of papers that must be explored and delivered into a microphone that has no idea what’s to come and how music and history and personal relationships and the garment district we’ll never be quite the same again.

I’m writing to you with no hope of these words actually reaching you because the times most certainly have changed and the guards at the gate are even keener on keeping the unwashed masses from your door.

Please understand I have no hidden agenda nor are my motives very sharp. I just find myself connecting with everything you’re laying down and it makes me wish we could go see a movie or hang out in a bookstore or just eat some pie in a non-descript diner somewhere in America or maybe we could hang out in your castle watching The Third Man. I bet your take on Harry Lime, Orson Welles and Graham Greene would shiver my timbers and leave me in a mess on the stone cold floor as you giggled just like you did in ’65 when the world was laid out before you like cinéma vérité and you made it your own because what other choice did you have?

I’m pretty sure I’ve written these words before, but that’s alright because you get the point and understand that which is pointless is oftentimes the nightingale’s code as the world crumbles around your designer Italian boots and you make the most out of the words and the melodies and the fire and ice breaking down your walls and leaving you completely spent like a ghost whose ticking time bomb intellect refuses to back down or find someone less deserving to haunt.

Charles Cicirella

11/11/15

It Takes a Lot to Laugh (For Bobby)

http://charlespoet.podomatic.com/entry/2015-11-15T15_16_38-08_00

The way he says baby just kills me dead.

He returns from Newport tongue on fire.

Something’s changed, something’s happening here.

We sin, repent, gargle in the rat race choir.

And we spare no expense when it’s someone else’s money or creativity.

But Dylan he’s cut from an entirely poles apart cloth and the medicine he was mixing up in ’65 and ‘66 is like nothing heard before or since.

We travel the roadways and byways believing we’re something special, something exceptional when nothing could be further from the truth.

I believe America is afraid of its own shadow. I believe ISIS or ISIL or whatever you choose to call them has got our number and if we’re not careful they’ll shake us to our very foundation.

I also believe the world will not tolerate intolerance for long and when push finally comes to shove we’ll slay these fire breathing dragons because that’s what knights in shining armor do.

He stands tall in that studio like a traveling salesman or besmirched romantic.

I have a friend named Jerry whose sideburns are legendary and when he sings like a bird I discover myself no longer walking in the darkness alone.

Oh yes “If I was a master thief perhaps I’d rob them,” but your heartbreaks are none of my business so I’ll just stand over here all by my lonesome and bowl a strike or two in your spare time.

The way he delivers the word winning restores my faith in humankind because the past is ours to acknowledge or dispel at our own detriment.

Bob Johnston seems like a better fit as a new day rained down upon them like user-friendly lightning bolts from a love-struck God.

When Dylan’s in the zone there’s no one better equipped at shining a light on all of the possibilities that were not even imaginable until he entered the studio.

“It Takes A Lot To Laugh, It Takes A Train To Cry” and I’m quite certain this is true no matter what side you’re on.

Bobby navigates these inroads better than anyone because he’s not afraid to succeed or fail on his own terms as he sacrifices everything including his wellbeing.

There are many rock ‘n’ roll animals, but none of them seem as hungry or as literal as Dylan when he’s firing on all cylinders.

Charles Cicirella

11/15/15