Personification
I must begin again
There’s no other way
I must go out before an in
Can be revealed to me.
Am I a twin?
Two halves of a disenfranchised soul?
The Alpha or the Omega of my own
Latent apocalypse?
Seize the day
Seize the ruins of a civilization gone mad
Seize the madness of both success and failure.
The paint on the canvas represents love
Or the paint on the canvas represents nothing,
A joyous nothingness you’ve been at odds with
Since you were vacuumed out of the womb.
People see you doing nothing and they believe
You’re doing nothing when what they can not
Even begin to comprehend is how very much
Is going on inside your heart and head.
What am I the personification of?
Why don’t I bathe more and look at myself more
In the mirror?
Is it because I can not stand to see what I have become
And that even with no verdict handed down I’m still guilty
Of every crime they say I’ve committed.
I wanted to tell you how much I love you
And yet I knew it wouldn’t make any difference
Now that you’ve come to the conclusion that
I am worthless and everything written in blood
Has been washed away with the rain and snow.
Charlie 1/07
Sunday, January 07, 2007
Saturday, January 06, 2007
Behind Blue Bars
Behind Blue Bars
When we’re talking I am not writing
When we aren’t talking writing returns
The art needs my full attention
I must sacrifice myself for anything good to come
This isn’t meant to be sinister
I do not intend to become my very own haunted house
I just feel like I am suffocating when I am in touch
And when out of touch the art is my only confidant
The Nazi’s have broken out of my head
All the best wars have already been laid to rest
You probably will not understand this
Probably wonder what I am going on about
When we’re making love I am not communicating
When we are at odds the communication stops and starts
I remember you jumping up and down on the hotel bed while we listened to Blood On The Tracks; it’s the first time in a very long time that I discovered someone who was not holding anything back.
I know I disgust you
I’m not sure if I disgust myself.
Charlie 1/07
When we’re talking I am not writing
When we aren’t talking writing returns
The art needs my full attention
I must sacrifice myself for anything good to come
This isn’t meant to be sinister
I do not intend to become my very own haunted house
I just feel like I am suffocating when I am in touch
And when out of touch the art is my only confidant
The Nazi’s have broken out of my head
All the best wars have already been laid to rest
You probably will not understand this
Probably wonder what I am going on about
When we’re making love I am not communicating
When we are at odds the communication stops and starts
I remember you jumping up and down on the hotel bed while we listened to Blood On The Tracks; it’s the first time in a very long time that I discovered someone who was not holding anything back.
I know I disgust you
I’m not sure if I disgust myself.
Charlie 1/07
Thursday, January 04, 2007
Wounded
Wounded
She is wounded
Deaf and dumb
Stronger than most.
Write this prophecy down
Write it with teeth and eyes
Write it in menstrual blood.
Skywriting for the birds
Musicians covered in feathers
The Great American novel shit.
He is immortal
Ragged and dirty
Stupider than most.
Build a Church in your heart
Build it with your third eye
Build it on sand.
We are wounded
Injured and spiraling
Stranger than strange.
Charlie 1/3/07
She is wounded
Deaf and dumb
Stronger than most.
Write this prophecy down
Write it with teeth and eyes
Write it in menstrual blood.
Skywriting for the birds
Musicians covered in feathers
The Great American novel shit.
He is immortal
Ragged and dirty
Stupider than most.
Build a Church in your heart
Build it with your third eye
Build it on sand.
We are wounded
Injured and spiraling
Stranger than strange.
Charlie 1/3/07
Monday, December 25, 2006
Mystery Child
We drive through the coal mines of darkness – night a refuge – someone else’s dirty secret – she was wearing my heart on her sleeve it embarrassed me so I looked away – I looked toward the snow covered mountains – the desert sands – made friends with a junkyard dog – someone who did not judge me too harshly – how was I to know bad dreams can or can not come true depending on your prayers the night before – isolation scared the living hell out of me when I was a mystery child now it’s a refuge – he played the guitar like Christ being crucified – blood medicine – soul journey – border crossing – we drive – gamble – cry – make love in dark caves – darkness abates when we open our hearts – to what? to who? I met my faith head on in Death Valley it was dressed as a park ranger told me all about ravens and heroin addicts who write the freshest prose – blood sausage – blood oranges – bloodshot and wishing this hangover were not so honest – I do not drink don’t even do drugs anymore even denial has been hung up for another set of clothes – we owe ourselves love – we owe ourselves happiness – we drive through the sun at the speed of light praying we don’t get burned... Charlie 12/25/06
Sunday, November 19, 2006
Ready, Set, Go!
Ready, Set, Go!
If there is a chance I will take it
A chance to live without guilt
A reason to reason no longer
If there is a way I will discover it
This is what I’ve always done
I wait and I wait and I wait
Until the lights burn my retinas
And I know a Savior is close at hand
No more Bible reading
I must live these words before it’s too late
I’m a serial poet hell bent on killing false memories
I’m a lone voice looking for a free buffet
I must get in the ambulance and drive toward the setting sun
I must put my pistol down on the imaginary table and pray
For solitude
When I paint with watercolors everything reveals itself
When I paint with oils everything goes down the tube
No more reading from the want ads
I know what I want and it will not be found on the printed page
When I enter a hotel room first thing I do is look for a Bible
When I enter my Father’s House first thing I do is repent
Charlie October 30, 2006
If there is a chance I will take it
A chance to live without guilt
A reason to reason no longer
If there is a way I will discover it
This is what I’ve always done
I wait and I wait and I wait
Until the lights burn my retinas
And I know a Savior is close at hand
No more Bible reading
I must live these words before it’s too late
I’m a serial poet hell bent on killing false memories
I’m a lone voice looking for a free buffet
I must get in the ambulance and drive toward the setting sun
I must put my pistol down on the imaginary table and pray
For solitude
When I paint with watercolors everything reveals itself
When I paint with oils everything goes down the tube
No more reading from the want ads
I know what I want and it will not be found on the printed page
When I enter a hotel room first thing I do is look for a Bible
When I enter my Father’s House first thing I do is repent
Charlie October 30, 2006
Saturday, October 28, 2006
Why Are We Here? By Joni Soule
Why are we here? Nothing clear
logical thinking is not clear
neither is chaos
Dying To Live (for Joni Soule)
Dying To Live
(for Joni Soule)
Radically human
Non specific
Imperfectly perfect
There is a holocaust occurring in her brain
If you cut open one of her paintings it would bleed.
Some of us hang on through hollow prayer and demolished hope
Many of us prefer to stay isolated in a pine box of our own devising
When she stands before the canvas it’s as if she is constructing her
Very own shrine to invisible fairies who believe in a very real God.
It’s better that people don’t get us
It’s better people don’t stretch their brains or get back
In touch with their heart stems because paradise like this
Can not be visited too often before becoming accustomed
To this special brand of pain and suffering designed to lull
You out of unconsciousness before numbing you for good.
She is dying to live; heard it the first time I experienced
Her non-performance it was at a coffeehouse during the Victorian
Age, I was Joan of Arc to her burning stake. She lit me on fire
From the inside out and before I knew what had hit me I was
Swimming in blood and channeling more obscure ghosts.
Her painting takes her down from a pedestal
Her paintings prove Saints exist in this day and age
To make a sacrifice we must first disconnect from the
World at large, to make a difference we must learn to
Love the inner child burning inside each and everyone
Of us.
Charlie Cicirella October 28, 2006
Radically human
Non specific
Imperfectly perfect
There is a holocaust occurring in her brain
If you cut open one of her paintings it would bleed.
Some of us hang on through hollow prayer and demolished hope
Many of us prefer to stay isolated in a pine box of our own devising
When she stands before the canvas it’s as if she is constructing her
Very own shrine to invisible fairies who believe in a very real God.
It’s better that people don’t get us
It’s better people don’t stretch their brains or get back
In touch with their heart stems because paradise like this
Can not be visited too often before becoming accustomed
To this special brand of pain and suffering designed to lull
You out of unconsciousness before numbing you for good.
She is dying to live; heard it the first time I experienced
Her non-performance it was at a coffeehouse during the Victorian
Age, I was Joan of Arc to her burning stake. She lit me on fire
From the inside out and before I knew what had hit me I was
Swimming in blood and channeling more obscure ghosts.
Her painting takes her down from a pedestal
Her paintings prove Saints exist in this day and age
To make a sacrifice we must first disconnect from the
World at large, to make a difference we must learn to
Love the inner child burning inside each and everyone
Of us.
Charlie Cicirella October 28, 2006
Thursday, October 12, 2006
GHOSTS 2006 (for Jim Volk and Albert Ayler)
Ghosts 2006
I am talking – do you can you hear me talking – I hear your fingers grasping plucking moaning against the strings – your index finger and thumb resting no more – there is a sacrifice - there is a new set of rules – everything disintegrates – rots – finds a new message – new purpose – the monkey swings from branch to branch – the monkey another mechanic – another sacred being tuning up the cosmos with its special brand of medicine – I am writing – do you see me writing – I see your wiggly digits wiggling to and fro – respect life do not hold hands with the undertaker’s daughter – don’t get in the pool until your food is completely digested – respect death do not spurn the advances of another rotting human – this music a prayer for both the living and the dead – this music comforts us – this music praises us – this music pours us a drink and tells us unspecific truths – I’ve lost my compass – my ground zero compromised – I’m aching from being punched in the stomach a thousand or more times…
Charles Cicirella
I am talking – do you can you hear me talking – I hear your fingers grasping plucking moaning against the strings – your index finger and thumb resting no more – there is a sacrifice - there is a new set of rules – everything disintegrates – rots – finds a new message – new purpose – the monkey swings from branch to branch – the monkey another mechanic – another sacred being tuning up the cosmos with its special brand of medicine – I am writing – do you see me writing – I see your wiggly digits wiggling to and fro – respect life do not hold hands with the undertaker’s daughter – don’t get in the pool until your food is completely digested – respect death do not spurn the advances of another rotting human – this music a prayer for both the living and the dead – this music comforts us – this music praises us – this music pours us a drink and tells us unspecific truths – I’ve lost my compass – my ground zero compromised – I’m aching from being punched in the stomach a thousand or more times…
Charles Cicirella
Tuesday, October 10, 2006
blather
Shall I cradle this nearly sleeping child in my supposedly humane arms? How can we judge this or that injustice so callously? Am I a monster or a saint and does it matter in the living and or dying end? I met St. Peter at a “meeting” he kept playing hard to get. You are never supposed to ask if He was hot or cold to the touch. Suppose to play it all cool when one of the disciples graces your presence with their nonchalant grace. Shall I go out on Highway 61 and find another nearly sacrificed child to call my very own? I’m not joshing I’ve got a loaded gun and I’m not afraid to use it. I’m not kidding I have a mouth filled with biting remarks and a sardonic sense of dispossessed humor I’m willing to spill onto you like the newest hippest rot. Shall we cradle this unkempt civilization in our bored bosom and pray for sunny skies or should we just call it quits right now? Shall I tell you I love you for the millionth time and hope that you still find some truth in it?
Charles Cicirella
Shall I cradle this nearly sleeping child in my supposedly humane arms? How can we judge this or that injustice so callously? Am I a monster or a saint and does it matter in the living and or dying end? I met St. Peter at a “meeting” he kept playing hard to get. You are never supposed to ask if He was hot or cold to the touch. Suppose to play it all cool when one of the disciples graces your presence with their nonchalant grace. Shall I go out on Highway 61 and find another nearly sacrificed child to call my very own? I’m not joshing I’ve got a loaded gun and I’m not afraid to use it. I’m not kidding I have a mouth filled with biting remarks and a sardonic sense of dispossessed humor I’m willing to spill onto you like the newest hippest rot. Shall we cradle this unkempt civilization in our bored bosom and pray for sunny skies or should we just call it quits right now? Shall I tell you I love you for the millionth time and hope that you still find some truth in it?
Charles Cicirella
Sunday, October 01, 2006
Night and Day
Night and Day
I’m not afraid of the dark
It has no secrets to project
I am a prospector of the light
We hold hands
We must hold on
Even when our hands do not
Fear is the devil’s tool
The devil is not a ghost
Love defeats evil
Words go through my heart
My gut instincts right every wrong
I am a guardian of future lives
My life God’s tool
My life a living prayer
Love begets Love
Hold On
Charlie
I’m not afraid of the dark
It has no secrets to project
I am a prospector of the light
We hold hands
We must hold on
Even when our hands do not
Fear is the devil’s tool
The devil is not a ghost
Love defeats evil
Words go through my heart
My gut instincts right every wrong
I am a guardian of future lives
My life God’s tool
My life a living prayer
Love begets Love
Hold On
Charlie
Wednesday, September 27, 2006
NEW POEMS
Sheets of Music and Linen
It’s playing
The music is playing
She’s swaying
Swaying to the beat
I remember standing next to her
Couldn’t believe my luck
Standing near a young woman
Who believes in personal freedom
We hugged
I handed her a bootleg or two
Ever since then she has been
Etched into my heart brain
You make the difference
You always have
Everyone near you knows
You are on fire with love
Let’s build a fort out of
Blankets and old tires
Whisper to each other
About revolutions still burning
There is no tear gas in our love
Nothing to hang onto but the
Brilliance of your words and kisses
And that’s a very good thing
The wilderness was cold and empty
You brought me back from this graveyard
Gave unto me patience and consideration
Irascibility a virtue I’m learning to do without
Our hands clasped together in prayer catch God’s tears
People who try to redesign religion are fools for it is
All there in the hymns of yesterday and the book sales
Happening in the basement like all great happenings do
The music keeps us happy
The music delights us with its ability to grow and grow
We were driving and you were doing a Howlin’ Wolf
Imitation and I couldn’t believe how much you sounded like him.
Charlie
For Lisa Lisa
Dictionaries in the shape of hearts and things..
Her excitement about a book she is reading or a song she is listening to is infectious
Our dance parties have made me a better man if not a better dancer
When we are close it opens up universes of expansion that I never would have believed existed before holding her hand
Watching movies with her turns me inside out and pushes my mind to see and feel more
I’m swimming in shark infested waters only thing is all the sharks are dead killed by an inability to act quickly and efficiently
Are you a dolphin or a mermaid or a sailor exploring territory lost between the spaces of words that should have been said
Her joyous rapture like none I have experienced before as she brings Milton to life with the body language of a Saint
The photographs she scans maps to past, present and future worlds we mustn’t lose sight of as night unfolds all around us
She sings and I listen, she walks and I follow, she smiles and I smile, she laughs and I laugh, she dreams and I dream
We were sitting in a bus talking about TV dinners as we choked on exhaust and the day welcomed us again.
Charlie
For Lisa Lisa
It’s playing
The music is playing
She’s swaying
Swaying to the beat
I remember standing next to her
Couldn’t believe my luck
Standing near a young woman
Who believes in personal freedom
We hugged
I handed her a bootleg or two
Ever since then she has been
Etched into my heart brain
You make the difference
You always have
Everyone near you knows
You are on fire with love
Let’s build a fort out of
Blankets and old tires
Whisper to each other
About revolutions still burning
There is no tear gas in our love
Nothing to hang onto but the
Brilliance of your words and kisses
And that’s a very good thing
The wilderness was cold and empty
You brought me back from this graveyard
Gave unto me patience and consideration
Irascibility a virtue I’m learning to do without
Our hands clasped together in prayer catch God’s tears
People who try to redesign religion are fools for it is
All there in the hymns of yesterday and the book sales
Happening in the basement like all great happenings do
The music keeps us happy
The music delights us with its ability to grow and grow
We were driving and you were doing a Howlin’ Wolf
Imitation and I couldn’t believe how much you sounded like him.
Charlie
For Lisa Lisa
Dictionaries in the shape of hearts and things..
Her excitement about a book she is reading or a song she is listening to is infectious
Our dance parties have made me a better man if not a better dancer
When we are close it opens up universes of expansion that I never would have believed existed before holding her hand
Watching movies with her turns me inside out and pushes my mind to see and feel more
I’m swimming in shark infested waters only thing is all the sharks are dead killed by an inability to act quickly and efficiently
Are you a dolphin or a mermaid or a sailor exploring territory lost between the spaces of words that should have been said
Her joyous rapture like none I have experienced before as she brings Milton to life with the body language of a Saint
The photographs she scans maps to past, present and future worlds we mustn’t lose sight of as night unfolds all around us
She sings and I listen, she walks and I follow, she smiles and I smile, she laughs and I laugh, she dreams and I dream
We were sitting in a bus talking about TV dinners as we choked on exhaust and the day welcomed us again.
Charlie
For Lisa Lisa
Thursday, September 14, 2006
East Lansing musings...
It begins - many connections in this light of beginnings and I am transfixed, bewitched and beguiled by all that is represented - a presentation of free thought - I knew all of the slaves on a first name basis - I was a slave - my roots like ivy clinging to this or that building - temples floating in the air - the first thing I noticed was your symmetry - how like a ballerina you were so good on your feet - an outlaw who keeps their pistols under wraps like a threatening Christmas present - a brand new red or blue bicycle no life in its dispirited tires - I'll never forget the black squirrels running around your campus like minstrels always searching for nothing so formal or orchestrated as a Gershwin tune - Chopin playing the black squirrels could feel it in their bones - it ends on all fours like an animal - many connections disconnected and connected over and over in this black tie ether - remember that bookstore in Ann Arbor how I left my heart in a Shakespeare Folio or was it instead rediscovered..
Charles Cicirella
September 4, 2006
Imploding
There is nothing wrong
What is right remains
What is wrong stains
There's blood everywhere
Covering the mirrors
Our reflections bloodshot
I'm not taking responsibility
My emotions look the other way
Accept the wreckage as your own
I am cold head to toe
The pain I feel secondhand
I am resigned to this dead body
Poetry an investigation
Something I must learn to nurture
Where are the facts?
There is something that remains alive
Behind the mouth and eyes of every passerby
I witness it chained to an unsolved mystery
We slammed against a wall
To assign blame is never the point
To persist in life both a privilege and our right.
Charles
September 7, 2006
Charles Cicirella
September 4, 2006
Imploding
There is nothing wrong
What is right remains
What is wrong stains
There's blood everywhere
Covering the mirrors
Our reflections bloodshot
I'm not taking responsibility
My emotions look the other way
Accept the wreckage as your own
I am cold head to toe
The pain I feel secondhand
I am resigned to this dead body
Poetry an investigation
Something I must learn to nurture
Where are the facts?
There is something that remains alive
Behind the mouth and eyes of every passerby
I witness it chained to an unsolved mystery
We slammed against a wall
To assign blame is never the point
To persist in life both a privilege and our right.
Charles
September 7, 2006
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