Diabetic Coma

http://charlespoet.podomatic.com/entry/2016-01-01T14_46_46-08_00

I can’t drink anymore Coca-Cola.

All the sugar is blurring my vision.

Recently I was told my Hemoglobin A1C test was significant for prediabetes.

I’ve never been very good at taking care of myself.

I’ve always eaten whatever I wanted and never worried about the consequences.

At forty six years old all the junk food is starting to take its toll and I’m not sure I’ll be able to pull myself out of this tailspin.

I’ve been warned.

I’ve been forced to not only acknowledge, but to read the writing on the wall.

And I’m not convinced even that will be enough to make me live my life any differently.

It’s not that I’m stubborn. Which I am.

Or that I don’t care. Which I’m not entirely certain I do.

I’m just not sure if anything I do will be enough to change the outcome and even if it is I’m not convinced that I care enough to throw myself a life preserver and save myself from drowning.

I want to get high.

That’s what I want to do more than anything right now.

And I know that’s not an answer, but oftentimes answers are overrated and problems are the only things that accept you for who you really are.

I can’t drink anymore Coca-Cola.

And I know there are other things I’ll have to stop before it’s all said and done.

Life is a drag, but it’s also the greatest gift we’ll ever be given and I need to figure a way to finally knock some real sense into my stone head.

Charles Cicirella

12/27/15

Hebrew National

http://charlespoet.podomatic.com/entry/2016-01-01T14_33_17-08_00

I want to eat a hot dog, but not sure that’s a very good idea.

I want to go down on you, but not sure you’d even allow me to after how we left things the last time we tried to be intimate and failed miserably.

I’ve always dated shiksas and though I’m not sure why that is that’s just how things worked out.

It’s 3:01 AM and I’m finding myself hungry. Or maybe I just feel like doing something with my mouth.

It’s 3:02 AM and I am quickly losing this battle to not get up and make myself a hot dog.

It’s now 3:03 AM and any second I am going to stand up, make myself a hot dog and then watch another episode of The Bridge. And in case you’re wondering I am talking about the original Danish/Swedish TV series and not one of the remakes which are also quite good.

I want to talk about something other than food, but what’s the point when I’m finding myself with this unappeasable craving.

Will power has never been my strong suit especially when we’re talking about an all-beef kosher hot dog.

You can take all of your fillings and whatever other garbage they stick into run of the mill hot dogs and send them to China for all I care because I’m only interested in 100% kosher beef and the deliciousness that goes along with it.

I want to eat a hot dog and that’s exactly what I’m going to do.

I’m not talking about just any hot dog. No siree bob no normal, boring hot dog will do.

And please try and forget what I said about shiksas in the first verse of this poem because there actually were a few Jewish women I dated and they were just as wonderful and just as nice as the non-Jewish women I spent time with.

Charles Cicirella

12/27/15

I'm Standing Here

http://charlespoet.podomatic.com/entry/2016-01-01T00_48_53-08_00

The poetry stands.

The poetry will always stand.

Creativity is the only thing that accepts me for who I am.

Another Christmas spent alone.

I reach out to close friends and they just ignore me.

Guess they’re too busy with their own families to stop and see that the darkness has swallowed me whole.

Or maybe they just don’t care.

And before you think I’m just feeling sorry for myself. Try and understand there is nothing wrong with that.

I sit down and instead of watching a movie or working on another project I just feel hurt and I haven’t a clue what to do with this emptiness, sorrow and derision.

The work stands.

The work is what separates the empty screen from the writing on the wall.

Creativity is the only God force I’ve ever believed in because it never asked me to explain myself or found fault with my existence.

I’m standing here. All five feet and two inches of me.

Standing by the railroad tracks that lulled me to sleep when our self-portraits were painted in fire and alcohol.

I’m standing here waiting for the sun to strike me dead so I can finally live again.

Charles Cicirella

12/26/15