Witness

I must get back to work.
I must get back to doing the work that everyone sees as nothing but I know is everything.
Depression crashes right through the front door, and before you know it, you’re pushing up daisies or, worse yet, sleeping your life away.

We are the dreamers, and though we may appear stagnant, nothing could be further from the truth.
We are the provocateurs causing trouble the live long day, knowing that whistling while you work will only bring you that much closer to the graveyard.
We are the fast food slaves who refuse to serve you any longer because you’re obese and that zero trans-fat doesn’t seem to be doing you much good.

I’m sleeping on my mother’s floor at forty-five years old with no clue what to do next, but I swear I do have an end game. It’s just one I choose to keep even from myself.
I want to tell you how I feel, but being ignored on Facebook is somehow worse than being ignored in person.
I need something I can believe in. Someone I can sink my teeth into who will return the favor and make me feel alive again. I have all the belief in myself that one person can possibly muster, but still that is not nearly enough to carry me over the threshold and deliver me to the Promised Land. I am a witness though I swear to Christ what I’ve witnessed so far does not impress me, nor does it give me much faith in the living dead.

I must return to some semblance of normal.
I must stop feeling guilty for anything and everything I’ve ever done wrong. It’s not about pulling yourself up by your bootstraps but instead about keeping it together when the shit is constantly hitting the fan and even the shit has had enough.
This paralysis I have been wrestling with has begun to not feel so awful, and that is neither acceptable nor something I would wish on my worst enemy.

Charles Cicirella
12/1/14

Yummy

I’m just about ready to eat a bowl of ice-cream.
I have been preparing all week and, I am nearly ready to jump in and drop out.
It most definitely should be about the small things, especially when you cannot afford any of the larger things that you want.

I would like to go see more than one Bob Dylan concert this time around, but I cannot afford to, so I must accept this irritating fact like I must accept autumn is almost here and Christ was more than just a martyr or teacher trying to get tenure.
I would like to see genocide eradicated and for everyone to learn to get along or to at least ignore each other. There’s too much violence and too much dying and too many zealots preying upon the people with their dogmatic ignorance and dictatorial intolerance.
I would like to have bought a pint of Ben and Jerry’s Peanut Butter Cup Ice-cream, but instead had to settle for a half gallon of Friendly’s Chocolate Peanut Butter Cup because it was on sale and boutique ice-cream does not fit the bill when all of your bills are long past due.

I’m just about ready to tell her that I miss seeing her naked, but I know she won’t care.
I have been preparing all my life and am almost ready for the humiliation of once again coming up short when attempting to dunk my ball into her basket.
It shouldn’t be about size, but we all know that it is because size matters like money matters, and if you don’t have either one, you’ll be sitting on the bench waiting in vain for the coach to put you in.

Charles Cicirella
8/28/14

In My Tummy

I ate a bowl of ice-cream and was happy for about fifteen minutes.
I watched a porno and was happy for about fifteen minutes.
I sat down in front of the laptop to write this poem and was lost in thought for about fifteen minutes.

I’m going out of my head and wish there was someone I could talk to.
I’m not really thinking about a therapist because I’d just end up arguing with them and would never take the prescribed medication for whatever is supposedly wrong with my head.
I’m pretty sure I have driven away most of the people who were once close friends because I have a tendency to talk at people instead of holding an actual conversation where two parties play equal parts.

I’m so fucking isolated, and it’s not doing me any good.
I’m so fucking inside my own head, and it’s bound to kill me dead.
I’m so fucking tired of being sick and tired and keep thinking about what my final act will be like.

I ate an Alka-Seltzer Fruit Chews, and my acid indigestion subsided for about fifteen minutes.
I thought about calling you, and that occupied my thought process for about fifteen minutes.
I sat down in front of the laptop to revise this poem, and was lost in the profundity of the moment for about a minute and a half.

Charles Cicirella
8/29/14

Chicken Wings

My lips are burning from the Buffalo wing sauce.
I still want to try the spicy chicken wings at this Chinese restaurant in Chicago.
The first time I ever ate chicken wings was when I was working at JR Miggs in Columbus, Ohio.

We bask in the complex simplicity of our lives when what we need to be doing is asking the hard questions like why is everything so messed up.
We need to wake up and smell the coffee and begin wrapping our heads around the fact that capitalism is failing us and democracy is a big fat lie.
What happened to the division of church and state? And why are we allowing any religious group the right to decide our rights for us? Jesus Christ was a teacher and a Jew. Not a politician or a Christian.

I don’t have a clue what this poem is about or why I started talking about chicken wings and then morphed into how fucked up things are.
Perhaps the state of the world and the state of my chicken wings has something in common, or maybe I am just losing my mind one tasty chicken wing at a time.
I got extra bleu cheese dressing to bath the Buffalo wings in. I must admit that biting into a chunk of bleu cheese and then tasting that flaming hot Buffalo wing sauce is quite a diabolical and richly rewarding combination.
Soon I’ll be returning to Chicago, and I really do hope I can talk my friend into returning to that Chinese restaurant in Albany Park because their spicy pork is damn near as good as it gets.

Charles Cicirella
10/5/14

Breaking Bread

Breaking bread with our eyes wide open.
Miracles happen every day to everyone.
It doesn’t matter which wave you choose to ride because they’ll all bring you to the shore eventually.

There is a family dynamic about you that I picked up on from the first moment that we met.
I could tell that you like to take care of people, and I really hope you also allow people to take care of you.
When we were led out of Egypt, it’s you I would have wanted by my side because I know you wouldn’t have let anything bad happen to me. Plus you would have laughed at all of my inappropriate jokes.
I’ve never been a very strong swimmer so even when the Red Sea parted, I would have still wanted to hold the hand of someone who would have talked me through our crossing.

The desert is a deprived place that is not recommended to get lost in. The bootlegged sun will have you hallucinating before you know it.
I believe even Moses must have had some serious second thoughts as he brought his people forth into a land where nothing was what it appeared to be.
It goes without saying that listening to a strange burning bush will oftentimes get you into trouble, regardless if your intentions are good and you believe in this vision quest.

Breaking down because everything seems hopeless and without a solution in sight.
“Trust yourself to find the path where there is no if and when.”
You are the miracle breaking through a new level of consciousness with every step that you take. There is strength, there is love, and there is so much healing beauty in your readiness to evolve.

Charles Cicirella
10/5/14

My Mind Map #4

I know I’m getting close to something, even though I don’t know what it is.
I refuse to even use the word truth because that’s a word used far too often and is losing whatever street cred it may have once possessed.

My poetry is like a Play-Doh factory and I’ll keep pushing it out in all the many colors of the rainbow because that’s what arrested adolescents do as they wait for the paramedics to arrive.
I remember being fifteen years old at Macs Backs Paperbacks on Coventry in Cleveland Heights, Ohio. Suzanne welcomed me as I entered the bookstore, and I’ve never once looked back. Having the opportunity to finally get up and share whatever this is that was taking shape on the page is the best fix I have ever had, and no drug could have even come close to taking its place.

I like to think I am a romantic when nothing could be further from the truth.
I’m just a misshapen little man who does not shower enough and lets his beard grow because he is too lazy to fish out the electric razor from beneath the sink.
There is a slight possibility, though, that I have a great intellect, or at least that is what I was once told by some paranoid freak who believed the voices he was hearing might actually be divulging some Earth shattering information to his mind map.
To be perfectly honest I had never heard the word intellect before he had said it, and when I told him that, he thought I was fucking with him. I ended up playing him an advanced copy of Dylan’s record Down in the Groove, so everything sorta kinda worked itself out in its own way.

I know I’m close to striking oil or finding the next big thing. Then again, maybe I’m just another little boy whose eyes are bigger than his stomach.
I refuse to believe I’ve come this far only to have to now stop panning for gold.
My own street cred dried up eons ago, yet still I will never stop swinging for the fences, even though I absolutely hate sports and the metaphors that go along with them.

Charles Cicirella
10/3/14

Close My Eyes

I am going to close my eyes and go to bed.
Turn off the phone and forget I was ever here.
I am loving myself and wish you would join the festivities without any hard feelings or passive aggressive tendencies.

I am going to get on my knees and pray to God. Even if I have my doubts about this creator that so many people seem to hold in such high esteem.
I am going to close my eyes and when I open them either you’ll be in love with me or gone. You choose and please don’t clear your throat because you know how I hate spoiler alerts.
After just now taking a shower I forgot to clean my ears which means my hearing probably won’t be up to par. I am telling you this so you won’t think I am choosing to ignore you but instead will understand that hearing or not hearing you is out of my control.

They told me sleep would be like a temporary death and yet my dreams kept me awake and the little sleep I did get made me even more jealous of the ghosts inside the machine.
I will never forget sitting in that ice-cream parlor in Chicago eating a turtle sundae with my good friend as Bob told us something only dead men know.
Bring yourself back down to Earth and I promise I’ll be here when you get back. We can continue where we left off or even better we can start all over again just like the pioneers did before Silicon Valley took over our lives.

I am going to close my eyes and finally wake up.
Turn off the television and forgive myself for all the wrongs that I’ve done and that includes never cleaning my mother’s condo up to her rigorous and ransacked standards.
I am in the process of rediscovering myself and wish you would either join the party or leave the building because your silent treatment is worse than electroshock therapy to my Peter Cottontail soul.

Charles Cicirella
10/14/14

Poetry Endoskeleton

Add flesh to your poetry endoskeleton.
Accept the task handed to you, and stop pretending you cannot hear the voices in your head.
We are mere shadows of our former selves when we allow the bullies to get the upper hand.

I’m going to eat a roasted turkey and provolone sandwich on Tuscany bread, hoping that it will help beat back this depression.
Don’t forget you are one of the good ones, even though all the signs point to the opposite being true.
Our society loves to celebrate the art while shunning the artist. It’s just the way things seem to work in our overexposed and undervalued society of haves and have nevers.

I’m going to jump in the deep end and pray my endoskeleton survives. I’ve been afraid of deep water since before my bones fused together. At some point I must face my fears and stop haunting myself.
This writing is getting me nowhere fast, but it’s the only thing that feels right. I refuse to go against my gut instincts, no matter if I end up on the street with nothing but a cardboard box to call my home.

The good news is I haven’t pulled out my hair in quite some time. The bad news is I haven’t been in anything even close to a relationship in over ten years.
This poetry skeleton is the scaffolding that supports my humanness.
I’m just a shell of my former self, but I am not complaining because there are still many poems to write before the darkness comes a-calling and leads me into the light.

Charles Cicirella
10/10/14

My Mind Map #2

When my synapses are clicking and the words are flowing, there is no better feeling in the world. I cannot say that is what I’m striving for, but I will say I feel a whole heck of a lot better when I’m writing.
The poetry is the only friend I’ve ever had that does not ask me to explain myself or justify why it is I do or don’t do something.
Yes, I want to let it in, even though I don’t know what it is.

My mind map knows where it’s at and does not need satellites or other technological psychobabble to help locate its next bull's eye.
I was lost in a sea of misgivings when I tapped into my brain reservoir. What I discovered myself diving into were visions even Timothy Leary could not have possibly hallucinated when on his best medicine.
I would bend over backwards to try and help you get up to speed, but what’s the point when you’ve always been slow on the uptake and quick on your refusal to believe.
I suggest you lose yourself in whatever trend you’ve recently discovered. Perhaps that will help to unchain you from the same old whistling Dixie hegemony you seem to have become enamored with in your old age.

I’m going to go watch some porn to help me relax. When I return, I hope you’ll have some new insights to share or at least have come up with a better excuse as to why it is you’re always so out of breath and unwilling to share your Cajun fries with me when we’re on a stakeout.
It’s 5:53 AM, and my mind map is mired in the perversity of lying here attempting to pleasure myself. Oftentimes it is a lost cause, and I find myself returning to the place we first met, where my fingers can hopefully be put to better use.
Yes, I must allow my mind to roam wherever it sees fit or unfit because the end oftentimes reassesses the outcome. This proves especially true when delving into one’s craven imaginings and the creative process of purging oneself through any means necessary.

Charles Cicirella
10/1/14

My Mind Map

Jim once remarked on how hard it was for me to slow my mind down.
And now that I’ve given it some thought, I’ve realized I rarely do stop and take a breath.
I don’t know what my mind map might look like, but I suspect the topography would be quite vast with plenty of marshlands and shrublands for the lonesome wolf of the steppes to travel and hunt in.

Charles Cicirella
9/29/14

Reluctant Hero

(For Bill Cohen)

I’m a reluctant hero, but please don’t ask why.
I do not deserve whatever accolades you may feel like bestowing upon me. Give them to someone who actually looks good wearing medals and being led around like a prized poodle.
I’m just a poet nothing more and a whole lot less. When it comes time for dinner, I’ll be the first one sitting at the table and the last one to get up before stretching and going to bed.

I’m a reluctant bank robber, but please don’t ask why.
It was never about amassing wealth or scaring people by pointing a gun at them. I think it has more to do with the thrill of doing something out of the ordinary, even though robbing banks seems to be becoming more of an everyday happening with each passing day.
Examine your own needs. Do it selflessly and selfishly. Do it with unmitigated abandon, and do it while wearing a blindfold and smoking a cigarette. You are a flawed human specimen, and when held up to the light, you are also a reluctant hero with countermeasures and counter offers making up for lost time and lost wages.

I stood up too fast, and from an insufficient amount of oxygen to the brain, I nearly fainted.
Poetry is the IV drip I find necessary to keep me hydrated and full of good vibrations. It’s most certainly not a cure all, but it’s also far from snake oil as I discover myself for the first time in a very long time receptive to going outside and feeling the sun on my pasty skin.
I’m channeling a different kind of development having far more to do with internal fluctuations than anything that can be looked at under a microscope.

I waited in the waiting room for you to come out knowing full well you had more than likely slipped out a back door because our relationship had been on the skids for quite some time. We had become reluctant heroes to our inability to express why it was we felt so lifeless and had no get up and go. Train yourself to become an assassin, and break on through to the other side because only then will you have any chance at reconciling with your inner self. I’m not talking about passing away, but instead about living through the reconnecting with all of your most reluctant of senses.

Charles Cicirella
10/5/14

"A Gateway To The World Between Worlds"

“I did not come to bring peace, but a sword.”
Listen to those words and know there is more here than meets the eyes, nose and throat.
The eyes can only reveal so much if the door is shut while our passions drag us kicking and screaming through the desert, naked and frozen with self-recriminations.

Take your demonic ideals and shove them where the sun doesn’t shine.
I never claimed to possess any moral virtue, not even when I was a child and existed inside tumors of cancerous self-doubt.
When you live at someone else’s expense, the beckoning you do is rarely your own.
You die a little inside each day because you’re a crustacean and your shell is ill-fitting, but blaming other crustaceans is not going to change a damn thing or make you any less delicious when sautéed in butter.

Ring Around the Rosie was a playground singing game before it became a hellacious threat scaring adults and children alike.
I’m not telling you anything you don’t already know. The writing was on the wall long before Moses led the Jews out of Egypt or you were probed by your first touchy feely alien.
There is nothing wrong with listening to your heart as long as you know not all heart murmurs speak the truth or are interested in helping you find  some honest to goodness happiness.

Charles Cicirella
9/25/14

Gone With The Wind

I’ve never seen Gone with the Wind.
I want to get to know Hattie McDaniel on a first name basis.
It’s time I made something happen with my life, but "Frankly, my dear, I don't give a damn."

You think you know everything only to realize you’ve barely scratched the surface.
I couldn’t find any Windex when I was at the store, so I bought Valu Time Glass Cleaner instead.
It appears to do the same job for half the price. Isn’t that the way that it always is?

I’m not opposed to the less expensive generic brands because I often feel like I am the generic brand, and that there is a name brand Charles Cicirella running around out there.
Keep your eyes and heart pealed because you could happen upon your soul mate at any moment. There’s no telling if you’ll hit it off, but if you don’t give it a shot, you’ll never know if you could have been happier than you presently are.
We bring our children up to believe that anything is possible. Truth be told, we don’t honestly know if such a thing is even true, but what’s the harm in dreaming and spreading some good cheer?

I think it’s high time I saw Gone with the Wind.
We all need to get our Margaret Mitchell on before we sink into the big sleep.
It’s time I made something of my life, and Rhett Butler’s enthrallment with Scarlet will not diminish my own desires in the least little bit. 

Charles Cicirella
9/28/14

Coffee Beans

Words appear in my head, and I write them down.
It’s that simple, even though simplicity has nothing to do with it.
The point is not the complexity of the task at hand. When it comes to degrees of difficulty, I’m as lost as you and in need of a stiff drink and an even stiffer upper lip.

Reveal everything about yourself by looking deeply into my eyes. I promise before we’re through, we’ll have either fallen in love with each other or fallen out of another poor excuse for what may have passed for a relationship in another century.
I always believed your sense of style was timeless until realizing you were receiving your best ideas from someone else’s magazine cover shoot where all the models suffer from eating disorders and believe the objectification of one’s body is a small price to pay for immortality and a six figure salary.
The coffee beans were over roasted and tasted burnt, but that’s okay. I prefer my coffee well done and my morning Danish to be filled with cheese and endless regret, just like I preferred you lying in bed looking up at me with your crescent moon shaped eyes before we visited the church for the final time.

Words appear in my head, and I either accept the task at hand or do my best to ignore it.
If I choose to ignore it, I’ll never live it down because the words will haunt me like sourdough ghosts in the heart of the Tenderloin in San Francisco.
I am a poet, not a rabbi, police chief, or CPA. I am unpaid and constantly on guard, but those are the choices that I’ve made.
The sacrifice was the easy part. The hard part starts now as I do my best to figure out why I was forsaken and to whom I should take my complaints to.

Charles Cicirella
10/2/14

Another Poem About Bob Dylan #3

“I’m walking through streets that are dead.”
Headphones on receiving orders from central cocoon.
His voice a paintbrush. His every line delivers nostalgia and new birth simultaneously.
“My feet are so tired, my brain is so wired,  and the clouds are weeping.”

We’re soldiers on the front line of nothing.
Nothing new, nothing old. It’s all been done to death before.
He arrived in New York City and broke new ground by simply doing nothing more than showing up and paying attention.
I’m listening to a man who continues to give a damn as he hides in plain sight and brings us together faultlessly decade after decade.

“Sometimes the silence can be like the thunder.”
Sometimes, Bob all I want to do is throw in the towel. Then I put on one of your records or live performances, and I am reminded that quitting is not an option.
Getting on the tour bus and heading for another joint. Sleeping in one strange hotel after another has to get old, and yet you’ve proven beyond the shadow of any doubt the mettle you’re made of and that a song and dance man is truly what you are.
“I spoke like a child; you destroyed me with a smile.”

Charles Cicirella
10/2/14

War Is Hell

The fog of war cannot be trusted.
Do you believe you have a better half? What do you think that better half is doing right now?
Obfuscation is just another word for smokescreen like Jerry Lewis is just another two words for overrated hack.

I was in the trenches and could hardly catch my breath.
There were all these Germans in close proximity, and I prayed they could not smell my Jewish blood.
Yes I am still very much a pacifist, but sometimes you must allow your moral imperatives to lapse so you can finish off the bullies with your semi-automatic fists.

I used to tell people I’m a lover, not a fighter. Now I just ask people to buy me a double bacon cheeseburger and call it a day.
You don’t have to worry about getting lost in the woods because these particular woods were created by the Brothers Grimm, and nothing happens in them except that which has already been written down and committed to a child’s fragile eggshell mind.
Someone slipped a red herring in my Coca-Cola, and before I knew it I was off on another wild goose chase. Agatha Christie called and she wants her ten little Indians back with interest. She also wanted me to tell you there’s no real point in solving a mystery when there’ll just be another one and another one after that. 

Charles Cicirella
9/25/14

Shifting Sands

I’m irrelevant.
The guy with the leaf blower is out back.
I don’t have any leaves to offer him and I cannot believe its fall again.

The sand is shifting beneath my bare feet.
I’ve always found sand between my toes to be such an unsettling sensation.
There’s no accounting for taste, but the way a person chooses to end their own life tells a lot about someone.

I’m going to go hide in the closet because I am petrified of what my bones might do when left to their own devices.
I know we’ve been here countless times before, but please understand I didn’t plan any of this. My writing is automatic. Like my feelings are automatic, not automated you dumb fuck.
Please forgive me my trespasses, and I promise to forgive you for when you walked in on me when I was wearing nothing but my sarcasm and a red clown nose.

The information I possess is erroneous at the best of times and completely off the reservation at the worst of times.
The code word is still Exodus so be sure to tell all of your gentile friends to make room because the chosen people are coming, and negotiating has never been one of our strong suits.
And if you think I am one of those self-hating Jews please know there is nothing I covet more than my Jewish ancestry. That does not mean I suffer fools gladly, though, nor will I put up with any of your Catholic guilt.

I’m unspecified.
The silence is deafening.
I don’t have any qualms about admitting I’ve lost my mind. I also don’t have a problem admitting that I have stopped giving a shit a long time ago.

Charles Cicirella
9/23/14

Homeland Security

You can blame it on the terrorists all you want, but the problem isn’t so much the terrorists, but rather how easily we allowed them to get inside of our heads.
When we started to use the word homeland that’s when the shit really got messed up. The word homeland makes me think of the Nazi’s and the Fatherland and all of the other bullshit going along with that failed and evil ideology.
911 was a horrendous and tragic day and there’s no disputing that, but why does America act like they’re the only ones to have ever been attacked on their own soil when in fact America is late in coming to this insidious party.
“My boyfriend's back and you're gonna be in trouble. (Hey-la, hey-la, my boyfriend's back).”

I have no idea how I’ll ever be able to explain to him how things got so screwed up in such a short amount of time.
The world has completely changed since 911, and it’s not the terrorists, who are to blame but instead all of us for how we chose to deal with this radicalized state of affairs. We surrendered our civil liberties and turned our backs on our supposedly trustworthy leaders so they could wreak even more havoc and break apart our Republic for which it stands.
“When you see him comin', better cut out on the double. (Hey-la, hey-la, my boyfriend's back).”

I remember when we could tell the bad guys from the good guys, or at least we thought we could. Back then, there were no 24-hour news cycles, and the term “lamestream media” had not yet been coined by some grizzly bear mom who had her fifteen minutes of fame but lacks enough sense to know when to call it a day.
You can blame it on the terrorists all you want, but we best start taking a good look at ourselves. Otherwise, we’re just going to become more and more paranoid as a nation and give ourselves an even bigger black eye than we already have.
“Hey, he knows what you been tryin'. And he knows that you been lyin'. (Hey-la, hey-la, my boyfriend's back).”

Charles Cicirella
9/27/14

"Fear Is Like A Companion"

(For Laurie)

Speak the words inside your heart.
Meditate on what is inside your head, and make it your own.
We are children of gods, and we’re never alone.
We are children of fools, and it’s our wishes bringing us home.
Focus through the darkness and the light.
Focus on the snow, and melt it with your love.
We’re invested in the game because we know the outcome will shape our future selves.
We’re standing on the stage, soaking in the heat from the spotlight’s ancestral glow.

Pick up a big stick, and beat down the shadows with all the inner knowledge you possess.
Push through the questioning and the doubting, and know that you are loved.
Fear is like a companion, making you stronger in the face of whatever adversities are knocking upon your door.
Fear is like a companion, grounding you when the bully pulpit is on its high horse and leading you around in dizzying circles.
Focus on what’s inside the sun, and embrace it with all your might.
We are invested in the now because we know what’s coming will strengthen our resolve.
We are standing on the stage, soaking in the warmth from an audience of our peers.

Charles Cicirella
9/19/14

White Paper

The poetry has me in its sights.
To most people, words are just words; to me, words are life and death.
The white paper is a childhood free of blemishes and pollutants.
When you begin breaking apart that is the best time to stop running and remember who you are.

The poetry has gotten out of hand, or maybe I am the one who has lost control and only the poetry can redefine me and make me whole.
There was a maelstrom that just about took off my head, but I kept my wits about me and learned to walk before I ran and hid.
The white paper is nothing you can easily wrap your mind around because it was here long before you were born and will be here long after you’re dead.
I believe it’s time we came clean and admitted what it is we expect from one another. I am tired of your lying eyes, and I know you’re tired of how easily I’ve always been able to manipulate you into doing whatever it is I desire.

The poetry has me dead to rights on accepting bribes from an invisible self I’m still having trouble letting off the hook.
To most people, words are just words; to me, words are a long-distance train rolling through the rain. I can’t help but wonder if Dylan will ever get back to when the truth was obscure, too profound, and too pure. To live it you have to explode.
The butcher paper is bloody from another day of giving birth free of guilt or reasonable doubt.
When you feel like your mind has given up, that’s the best time to forget you were once on the dark side of this room and that being a writer is the only thing that can help you to reach the light at the end of the tunnel.

Charles Cicirella
9/18/14