http://charlespoet.podomatic.com/entry/2015-03-13T18_00_20-07_00
Want to write a poem for you.
I believe this is that poem.
Watched you at Snoetry.
Still think about what you
Taught us and how you did it
Free of academia.
Think about you sitting against
The wall in Canton. How friendly
You were and how it made me
Feel like returning to the poetry
Scene was a good decision and
One I would not regret.
I very much want you to know
That you are not alone and that
I for one recognize and appreciate
Your generous and kind spirit.
I am also a very sensitive person
And no matter what anyone says
Having an open heart is a positive
And not a negative characteristic.
We bask in the sunlight of another
Dappled and delicious morning.
In our minds we are smelling the
Flowers and thanking some deity
For feeling so alive. You are a
Poet and there is no disputing that.
Poetry is a state of mind as much
As it is a state of true unbridled being.
Charles Cicirella
3/13/15
Friday, March 13, 2015
Tuesday, March 10, 2015
Words Untoward
http://charlespoet.podomatic.com/entry/2015-03-10T01_42_53-07_00
Seems like everyone is writing poetry these days.
It’s not such a hard job. Just string together some pearls and get out of the way.
I’ve never really thought of myself as a poet. That’s an eminent title and I’m more of a shoe polisher than a Poet, Pope or Virgin Mother.
Believe in a reversal of misfortune it’s about all you have to do.
Just grab hold of the Technicolor rainbow and don’t look back unless you want to turn into a pillar of salt like Lot’s wife did so many years ago.
I remember hanging out with Nero as Rome burned and how disappointed he was when trying to bum a cigarette and I told him I don’t smoke.
Seems like everyone wants to be radicalized these days.
First there was a war on drugs then there was a war on terror and neither one of them really seemed to do much good. In fact I believe in both cases the allotted targets only grew bigger and more out of control.
You want to change the world? Forget about it because the world is one hard headed mofo and the blood and grease on our hands is only going to get thicker because when push comes to shove we’re all Catholic priests with an altar boy or two in our closets.
These words are untoward. These words are broken, scarred and disassembled.
I’m no Mary Poppins and even if I was I would prefer you kept Lady Gaga and her duplicitous tributes to yourself.
The very first poem I ever wrote was about the moon. Before I die I hope to write a poem about shooting the moon. Groucho Marx was a poet. Karl Marx not so much, but I believe both men were dyed in the wool romantics.
Seems like everyone is writing their very own obituary these days.
They start with all of these verbose adjectives that leave you wondering who they’re even talking about and before you know it they’re out of breath and wishing they’d been put out to pasture long before the stars were torn down.
I want to die, but not because I am a fatalist but simply because I believe death will give me more of an edge. Please understand I am in no hurry to spiral off this mortal coil, but when it does happen I will lean into it like all good poets do.
Charles Cicirella
2/27/15
Seems like everyone is writing poetry these days.
It’s not such a hard job. Just string together some pearls and get out of the way.
I’ve never really thought of myself as a poet. That’s an eminent title and I’m more of a shoe polisher than a Poet, Pope or Virgin Mother.
Believe in a reversal of misfortune it’s about all you have to do.
Just grab hold of the Technicolor rainbow and don’t look back unless you want to turn into a pillar of salt like Lot’s wife did so many years ago.
I remember hanging out with Nero as Rome burned and how disappointed he was when trying to bum a cigarette and I told him I don’t smoke.
Seems like everyone wants to be radicalized these days.
First there was a war on drugs then there was a war on terror and neither one of them really seemed to do much good. In fact I believe in both cases the allotted targets only grew bigger and more out of control.
You want to change the world? Forget about it because the world is one hard headed mofo and the blood and grease on our hands is only going to get thicker because when push comes to shove we’re all Catholic priests with an altar boy or two in our closets.
These words are untoward. These words are broken, scarred and disassembled.
I’m no Mary Poppins and even if I was I would prefer you kept Lady Gaga and her duplicitous tributes to yourself.
The very first poem I ever wrote was about the moon. Before I die I hope to write a poem about shooting the moon. Groucho Marx was a poet. Karl Marx not so much, but I believe both men were dyed in the wool romantics.
Seems like everyone is writing their very own obituary these days.
They start with all of these verbose adjectives that leave you wondering who they’re even talking about and before you know it they’re out of breath and wishing they’d been put out to pasture long before the stars were torn down.
I want to die, but not because I am a fatalist but simply because I believe death will give me more of an edge. Please understand I am in no hurry to spiral off this mortal coil, but when it does happen I will lean into it like all good poets do.
Charles Cicirella
2/27/15
“Compartments that’s how we survive in this world.”
http://charlespoet.podomatic.com/entry/2015-03-08T13_56_53-07_00
Let’s make music like crickets.
I’m running out of good ideas.
The day the music died more
than just music breathed its last
breath.
We resemble our least favorable selves
when our backs are up against the wall.
She told me things about myself I could
hardly believe were true.
I’m running on empty and no top off
is going to save me.
We will not even come close to
breaking even if we insist on gambling
with our doppelgangers.
I sat next to her at a poetry reading
and everything sort of made sense
for the first time in decades.
The way I write is simple. I wait for the
words to advance and if they don’t I do
my best to stall before spilling the bloody
truth on the white shag rug. Believe what
you must. I still believe I am Christ the
Redeemer even though martyr complexes
are rarely worth the marble they are
chiseled from.
Put yourself in a compartment you will be
comfortable in for at least a millennium or
more. The help we seek quite often does
not come when expected so it’s best to be
cozy in one’s self-imposed isolation.
As we drove through the streets of Erie I
kept wondering why the plug hadn’t been
pulled years before.
Charles Cicirella
3/8/15
Let’s make music like crickets.
I’m running out of good ideas.
The day the music died more
than just music breathed its last
breath.
We resemble our least favorable selves
when our backs are up against the wall.
She told me things about myself I could
hardly believe were true.
I’m running on empty and no top off
is going to save me.
We will not even come close to
breaking even if we insist on gambling
with our doppelgangers.
I sat next to her at a poetry reading
and everything sort of made sense
for the first time in decades.
The way I write is simple. I wait for the
words to advance and if they don’t I do
my best to stall before spilling the bloody
truth on the white shag rug. Believe what
you must. I still believe I am Christ the
Redeemer even though martyr complexes
are rarely worth the marble they are
chiseled from.
Put yourself in a compartment you will be
comfortable in for at least a millennium or
more. The help we seek quite often does
not come when expected so it’s best to be
cozy in one’s self-imposed isolation.
As we drove through the streets of Erie I
kept wondering why the plug hadn’t been
pulled years before.
Charles Cicirella
3/8/15
Thursday, March 05, 2015
Noir
put the gun
in your mouth
pretend the
bullets are
cheese
and you
are a rat
swallow the barrel
you rat
pull the trigger
you rat
put the noose
around your neck
pretend
the rope
is
a Chicago neck-tie
and you are
being
interviewed
by
death
step up
you coward
step off
you coward
film noir
can get you
5 to 20
if you
don’t cover
your tracks
i know
you said
you’re a
film buff
but it’s
getting harder
and harder
to believe
a word
you say
these days
you
son
of
a
bitch
Charles Cicirella
3/5/15
in your mouth
pretend the
bullets are
cheese
and you
are a rat
swallow the barrel
you rat
pull the trigger
you rat
put the noose
around your neck
pretend
the rope
is
a Chicago neck-tie
and you are
being
interviewed
by
death
step up
you coward
step off
you coward
film noir
can get you
5 to 20
if you
don’t cover
your tracks
i know
you said
you’re a
film buff
but it’s
getting harder
and harder
to believe
a word
you say
these days
you
son
of
a
bitch
Charles Cicirella
3/5/15
Tuesday, March 03, 2015
Lose Your Footing
(For Darin Bulai)
http://charlespoet.podomatic.com/entry/2015-03-02T23_26_13-08_00
Basking in the American Graffiti moonlight.
A freeloading carpet bagging spirit-guide entrepreneur.
Slicing the uninherited wind into pieces and parts with a Cuisinart tongue mind-set
He commences soon after the werewolves have turned back into men and the vampires have retired to their subterranean motor-home coffins.
Broken and there is not enough Scotch Tape to repair these forsaken stigmata Romanesque ruinous wounds.
When staring up into the sky all that was there to fixate upon were clouds and more billowing clouds of thunder and thorn in the side Kabuki theatre political missteps.
Tired and listless like Sonny Liston after Cassius Clay beat the holy hell out of him in Miami Beach.
We’re all just miners mining for a heart of gold and a stampede of gold nugget words to ease us into our own desperate attempts for greatness or something resembling our better and less beleaguered Babe Ruth selves.
She wanted to sell my Star Wars collectibles because she believed she was owed a payday after putting up with all of my clinging and clawing behaviors. I warned her I possessed the claws of a sloth on sabbatical and was ready and willing to bring her down if it meant three square meals a day and a blow job on Presidents’ Day.
She was Pavlov and I was the dog salivating whenever she entered the room because I believed she was bringing me salvation or at the very least sustenance and a chew toy.
We were your typical broken record and I am sick and tired of how easy it is to now make a playlist, put it on shuffle and play it anywhere you like including the shower when you are drowning your sorrows in fifty shades of your own filth.
I believe in another life I was Sally Hemings and preferred it when Thomas Jefferson, Father of Democracy would give it to me from behind so I wouldn’t have to watch as his face scrunched up like a Red Delicious apple right before he climaxed inside like any free man has a tendency to do when sodomizing a slave they foolishly believe they own.
Kilroy was here or at least I think he was here. It is hard to keep track of his comings and goings when he is still so popular and every wall desires a piece of him.
He writes like the unseen wind and I cannot wait till I can put on a cloak of invisibility and lose myself in a lion’s share of his word puzzle requiems for a persona non grata quest for the Holy truncated Grail.
Charles Cicirella
2/28/15
http://charlespoet.podomatic.com/entry/2015-03-02T23_26_13-08_00
Basking in the American Graffiti moonlight.
A freeloading carpet bagging spirit-guide entrepreneur.
Slicing the uninherited wind into pieces and parts with a Cuisinart tongue mind-set
He commences soon after the werewolves have turned back into men and the vampires have retired to their subterranean motor-home coffins.
Broken and there is not enough Scotch Tape to repair these forsaken stigmata Romanesque ruinous wounds.
When staring up into the sky all that was there to fixate upon were clouds and more billowing clouds of thunder and thorn in the side Kabuki theatre political missteps.
Tired and listless like Sonny Liston after Cassius Clay beat the holy hell out of him in Miami Beach.
We’re all just miners mining for a heart of gold and a stampede of gold nugget words to ease us into our own desperate attempts for greatness or something resembling our better and less beleaguered Babe Ruth selves.
She wanted to sell my Star Wars collectibles because she believed she was owed a payday after putting up with all of my clinging and clawing behaviors. I warned her I possessed the claws of a sloth on sabbatical and was ready and willing to bring her down if it meant three square meals a day and a blow job on Presidents’ Day.
She was Pavlov and I was the dog salivating whenever she entered the room because I believed she was bringing me salvation or at the very least sustenance and a chew toy.
We were your typical broken record and I am sick and tired of how easy it is to now make a playlist, put it on shuffle and play it anywhere you like including the shower when you are drowning your sorrows in fifty shades of your own filth.
I believe in another life I was Sally Hemings and preferred it when Thomas Jefferson, Father of Democracy would give it to me from behind so I wouldn’t have to watch as his face scrunched up like a Red Delicious apple right before he climaxed inside like any free man has a tendency to do when sodomizing a slave they foolishly believe they own.
Kilroy was here or at least I think he was here. It is hard to keep track of his comings and goings when he is still so popular and every wall desires a piece of him.
He writes like the unseen wind and I cannot wait till I can put on a cloak of invisibility and lose myself in a lion’s share of his word puzzle requiems for a persona non grata quest for the Holy truncated Grail.
Charles Cicirella
2/28/15
Friday, February 27, 2015
"the creaking and weathervane sound of it"
going to watch “The Walking Dead”/ eat a Baby Ruth / makes me happy and somewhat grounded / can’t keep up with the jones / they’re either too fast, too slippery or both / the status quo can go to hell / i’m okay with whatever this nothingness misrepresents / trying to write freer like my friend Joni / of course if i’m trying then I have already failed / was in Minnesota at a post office and i remember Jayne only being able to write with a certain color pen / made me feel closer to her knowing she had quirks just like i have quirks and whatever was verboten in the next room would have probably made us both uncomfortable and wishing we had not touched the remote control / “The Walking Dead” is over and i am at a loss for words / the Baby Ruth was okay, but probably should have gotten a Snickers instead / tired of filling myself up with sugar and having no clue when the next pizza will be delivered / have to somehow find a way back into the elephant cage before everything is left of center / heard the creaking of the rusted and god forsaken weathervane / it sounded like a crow being murdered and not in a good way / fuck everybody who doesn’t believe in god and fuck everybody who believes that they are god and that a martyr syndrome is somehow a means to an end
Charles Cicirella
2/24/15
Charles Cicirella
2/24/15
Saturday, February 21, 2015
Bargaining
http://charlespoet.podomatic.com/entry/2015-02-21T01_22_30-08_00
Full of bluster.
Full of terror.
Full of crap.
This might be another poem.
This might be a cry for kindness.
This is not a suicide note.
Tired of beginnings.
Tired of endings.
Tired of being caught in the middle.
Full of whimsy.
Full of lust.
Full of spinach.
This may be overwrought.
This may be undercooked.
This is not made up in the least little bit.
Full of questions.
Full of wonder.
Full of light.
Charles Cicirella
2/21/15
Full of bluster.
Full of terror.
Full of crap.
This might be another poem.
This might be a cry for kindness.
This is not a suicide note.
Tired of beginnings.
Tired of endings.
Tired of being caught in the middle.
Full of whimsy.
Full of lust.
Full of spinach.
This may be overwrought.
This may be undercooked.
This is not made up in the least little bit.
Full of questions.
Full of wonder.
Full of light.
Charles Cicirella
2/21/15
Friday, February 20, 2015
Soule
http://charlespoet.podomatic.com/entry/2015-02-20T13_09_22-08_00
You write your soul, but still no one seems to get you.
They make fun of you or ignore you completely.
It’s like high school all over again and no one wants to sit with you at lunch.
Most of the time I don’t have a clue what I am talking about and for great intellects I’d much rather put a sock in it than try and make sense out of the equation my brain is sorting out.
I like doughnuts with chocolate frosting and white crème and no that’s not a euphemism.
If I’ve been a good boy I don’t see why I can’t have my cake and eat it too because we all deserve to live a little even if we’re without a job and living on someone else’s dime.
You paint your own tyranny of the empty room, but no one seems to be paying any attention.
They go on and on about the next big thing when the next big thing is you and that has been true from the moment you were created and started painting with your fingers.
We’re not celebrity artists. We’re in it for the long haul. No matter how many beguiling martyrs are forsaken and charming cult leaders go up in smoke?
Most of the time I am flat broke and flat on my back trying to find someone to converse with while watching one miserable television show after another because I find a short attention span more interesting than a long vacation abroad.
I have a taste for Chicken McNuggets even though when going to McDonald’s today I instead ordered two Filet-O-Fish sandwiches. I thought about ordering a McFlurry with OREO® Cookies when leaving but it was so cold outside I decided against it.
Junk food maintains me like phone sex sustains me because to be perfectly honest I am finding it far easier to turn the next phrase than to learn a new magic trick.
I am sorry for continually interrupting you when we’re on the phone. There’s no excuse for my being so rude it’s just knowing you is better than any drug I have ever ingested.
You feed my soul Joni Lynn Soule and like Oliver Twist “"Please, sir, I want some more."
Your fairy heart shines a light on my warlock soul. Reminding me why I’m still pressing down these keys and singing completely off key.
Charles Cicirella
2/20/15
You write your soul, but still no one seems to get you.
They make fun of you or ignore you completely.
It’s like high school all over again and no one wants to sit with you at lunch.
Most of the time I don’t have a clue what I am talking about and for great intellects I’d much rather put a sock in it than try and make sense out of the equation my brain is sorting out.
I like doughnuts with chocolate frosting and white crème and no that’s not a euphemism.
If I’ve been a good boy I don’t see why I can’t have my cake and eat it too because we all deserve to live a little even if we’re without a job and living on someone else’s dime.
You paint your own tyranny of the empty room, but no one seems to be paying any attention.
They go on and on about the next big thing when the next big thing is you and that has been true from the moment you were created and started painting with your fingers.
We’re not celebrity artists. We’re in it for the long haul. No matter how many beguiling martyrs are forsaken and charming cult leaders go up in smoke?
Most of the time I am flat broke and flat on my back trying to find someone to converse with while watching one miserable television show after another because I find a short attention span more interesting than a long vacation abroad.
I have a taste for Chicken McNuggets even though when going to McDonald’s today I instead ordered two Filet-O-Fish sandwiches. I thought about ordering a McFlurry with OREO® Cookies when leaving but it was so cold outside I decided against it.
Junk food maintains me like phone sex sustains me because to be perfectly honest I am finding it far easier to turn the next phrase than to learn a new magic trick.
I am sorry for continually interrupting you when we’re on the phone. There’s no excuse for my being so rude it’s just knowing you is better than any drug I have ever ingested.
You feed my soul Joni Lynn Soule and like Oliver Twist “"Please, sir, I want some more."
Your fairy heart shines a light on my warlock soul. Reminding me why I’m still pressing down these keys and singing completely off key.
Charles Cicirella
2/20/15
Thursday, February 19, 2015
Souls
We are naked.
We are sunsets.
We are seers.
I held this poem underwater.
It yapped like a pedigree beagle.
Water torture is not for patriots, mavericks or pussies.
We are burning.
We are Haley’s Comet.
We are storytellers.
I held this poem up to the light.
It shined brighter than any super nova.
Rainbows are for leprechauns, munchkins and torch singers.
We are livewires.
We are lightning in a bottle.
We are stigmata.
Charles Cicirella
2/19/15
We are sunsets.
We are seers.
I held this poem underwater.
It yapped like a pedigree beagle.
Water torture is not for patriots, mavericks or pussies.
We are burning.
We are Haley’s Comet.
We are storytellers.
I held this poem up to the light.
It shined brighter than any super nova.
Rainbows are for leprechauns, munchkins and torch singers.
We are livewires.
We are lightning in a bottle.
We are stigmata.
Charles Cicirella
2/19/15
Monday, February 16, 2015
Brick and Mortar
I’m feeling like shit. It
just happened or maybe it’s always just happening.
And there are no words.
Except for these words and these words are not proving to be of much comfort.
I’m not a carpenter. I am
just a person. A person who is feeling equal amounts shame and disgust for
whatever it is they’re unbecoming. Its Kafkaesque this metamorphosis from
person to bug to something I cannot even recognize or reconcile lying next to
any longer.
You were brilliant and you
were going to save me. Until I realized I needed to do my own saving and
Lifesavers are only worth sucking when they’re cherry flavored or maybe coconut
if you’re in that kind of mood.
Do you remember Hubba
Bubba Bubble Gum? I still can recall the Friendly Drugstore on Mayfield Road in
South Euclid. This was before CVS and Walgreens bled the life out of what a
family drugstore actually was. A place you felt comfortable going to when you
needed a quick pick me up and to see a familiar face.
I miss Powerhouse candy
bars. I miss asking you what time it is and you giving me some made up answer
because you always knew I could care less what time it really was.
I’m feeling like complete
crap. I am tired of being called out on the carpet for dreams that have turned
into dried flowers pressed in a book like the Bible but far less bloody or
compelling.
One word will hopefully
lead to the next and then to the next and before you know it you’ve crossed a bridge
and a poem is nearly completed.
I’m not a patriot. I am
just a person who would go live in another country if I had the money and the
wherewithal to pick myself up and get the heck out of Dodge. America the
Beautiful keeps going on and on about its special brand of exceptionalism when
all I see are a bunch of translucent hipsters cozying up to whatever is
convenient at that particular moment as mediocrity rains down upon them like
Froyo and fifty shades of vomit.
Charles Cicirella
2/16/15
Saturday, February 14, 2015
Lincoln Logs
I’ve built a fortress around me with words and whatnot.
My first memory is being inside a house. Everything is low-spirited.
I feel sad because no one ever seemed to want to hang out with me.
I told her to use her words not emoticons or silly ass stickers.
When she sings the Pony Express gallops from her throat as messages are delivered.
I’ll never forget how we nearly died from inhaling oil paint and turpentine fumes.
I’m not in control. In fact I’m out of control.
My mother asked me why I’m sleeping so much. I started thinking perhaps it’s because I’m depressed or maybe I’m just tired from doing nothing but waiting for the miracle to come.
The Lincoln Logs felt good in my hands. They reminded me how things fit together especially when unfit and in need of love and Elmer’s Glue.
Many people believe they are artists, but few burn hot enough to create anything actually transformative.
We are phoenixes and we rise from the ashes unguarded and empty of any deceit.
I’m not proud of how many bridges I have burned. I’m not proud of much these days except what I have pulled together from words and whatnot.
Charles Cicirella
2/14/15
My first memory is being inside a house. Everything is low-spirited.
I feel sad because no one ever seemed to want to hang out with me.
I told her to use her words not emoticons or silly ass stickers.
When she sings the Pony Express gallops from her throat as messages are delivered.
I’ll never forget how we nearly died from inhaling oil paint and turpentine fumes.
I’m not in control. In fact I’m out of control.
My mother asked me why I’m sleeping so much. I started thinking perhaps it’s because I’m depressed or maybe I’m just tired from doing nothing but waiting for the miracle to come.
The Lincoln Logs felt good in my hands. They reminded me how things fit together especially when unfit and in need of love and Elmer’s Glue.
Many people believe they are artists, but few burn hot enough to create anything actually transformative.
We are phoenixes and we rise from the ashes unguarded and empty of any deceit.
I’m not proud of how many bridges I have burned. I’m not proud of much these days except what I have pulled together from words and whatnot.
Charles Cicirella
2/14/15
Friday, February 13, 2015
“I forgave her because it’s not over.”
Going to eat some unfrosted strawberry Pop-Tarts.
The frosted ones have never made much sense to me.
I remember breaking like an egg when you called me a coward.
I remember feeling like a chicken the first time I cracked open an egg with blood in it.
I ate the Pop-Tarts.
I drank the Coca-Cola.
And truth be told I don’t feel very good.
In fact in about thirty minutes I may need to take an Alka-Seltzer Heartburn+Gas ReliefChews Tropical Punch Chewable Tablet.
These words like all words leave a stain.
These words like all words brandish a worthless objection.
I’m sick and I’m tired of being a conscientious objector.
I’m sick and I’m tired of laying a bet on the dark horse.
Going to eat a grilled Bavarian ham and Swiss cheese sandwich on Jewish rye.
Any other rye just doesn’t make sense to me.
I remember the first time I went to a Jewish deli and how at home I felt.
I remember the first time I ate a hot pastrami and chopped liver sandwich on Jewish rye and how I knew immediately that would be my go to sandwich for the rest of my life.
These sentences like all sentences leave a bad aftertaste in my mouth.
These sentences like all sentences breakdown before they’ve even hit the page because they have no sense of purpose and are fed up with being out of work and feeling so much pent up rage.
Come here I want to spill a secret into your ear.
Come closer I promise to keep my hands to myself especially when our clothes are disseminated all over the floor like anorexic ghosts and our fucking is devoid of rhythm or for that matter a worthy punchline.
Charles Cicirella
2/13/15
The frosted ones have never made much sense to me.
I remember breaking like an egg when you called me a coward.
I remember feeling like a chicken the first time I cracked open an egg with blood in it.
I ate the Pop-Tarts.
I drank the Coca-Cola.
And truth be told I don’t feel very good.
In fact in about thirty minutes I may need to take an Alka-Seltzer Heartburn+Gas ReliefChews Tropical Punch Chewable Tablet.
These words like all words leave a stain.
These words like all words brandish a worthless objection.
I’m sick and I’m tired of being a conscientious objector.
I’m sick and I’m tired of laying a bet on the dark horse.
Going to eat a grilled Bavarian ham and Swiss cheese sandwich on Jewish rye.
Any other rye just doesn’t make sense to me.
I remember the first time I went to a Jewish deli and how at home I felt.
I remember the first time I ate a hot pastrami and chopped liver sandwich on Jewish rye and how I knew immediately that would be my go to sandwich for the rest of my life.
These sentences like all sentences leave a bad aftertaste in my mouth.
These sentences like all sentences breakdown before they’ve even hit the page because they have no sense of purpose and are fed up with being out of work and feeling so much pent up rage.
Come here I want to spill a secret into your ear.
Come closer I promise to keep my hands to myself especially when our clothes are disseminated all over the floor like anorexic ghosts and our fucking is devoid of rhythm or for that matter a worthy punchline.
Charles Cicirella
2/13/15
Monday, February 09, 2015
I truly miss the water
The sound of blue green
Waves ,foam ,sand ,security
Living inside a small apartment
Two bedrooms four
very miserable people
Can't breathe each other's air we have too many
Similar inbred similarities
No escape from
The gene pools
living and dying
In this house
You said you were waiting
For something better or someone
Better to come along
A new house
The next door neighbor
Fishing on the deck
Catching catfish
Screaming ! throw it back !throw it back!
Blow fish ,the terrifying sad
Animal I've never seen. for that matter
All the fish were sad
And depressed
desperate for
Diversion in any shape or form
And the water is stable and strong
Except for the occasional tsunami
The empty pool
at Howard Johnson's
I threw up on my birthday cake
You laughed........ok this was
a tragic comedy
You always had the best sense of humor
Why didn't you ask me why
I threw up. This time
I could have told you
Cause the bright red and
Yellow balloons floated over
The unrecognizable concrete
With black lines and steps to nowhere
The connection of the balloons
And the waterless pool
Made a terrifying dream
Spaces of water terrifying beautiful
Mysterious, safe from restaurants
empty pools and claustrophobic
Mothers.
Joni Soule
Waves ,foam ,sand ,security
Living inside a small apartment
Two bedrooms four
very miserable people
Can't breathe each other's air we have too many
Similar inbred similarities
No escape from
The gene pools
living and dying
In this house
You said you were waiting
For something better or someone
Better to come along
A new house
The next door neighbor
Fishing on the deck
Catching catfish
Screaming ! throw it back !throw it back!
Blow fish ,the terrifying sad
Animal I've never seen. for that matter
All the fish were sad
And depressed
desperate for
Diversion in any shape or form
And the water is stable and strong
Except for the occasional tsunami
The empty pool
at Howard Johnson's
I threw up on my birthday cake
You laughed........ok this was
a tragic comedy
You always had the best sense of humor
Why didn't you ask me why
I threw up. This time
I could have told you
Cause the bright red and
Yellow balloons floated over
The unrecognizable concrete
With black lines and steps to nowhere
The connection of the balloons
And the waterless pool
Made a terrifying dream
Spaces of water terrifying beautiful
Mysterious, safe from restaurants
empty pools and claustrophobic
Mothers.
Joni Soule
Thursday, February 05, 2015
Beautiful red blood
I've known you
Since you were 18
I think? I met you
At Milos, at a strange building
glaring wide walls and high ceilings
I believe you took me on a tour
Into a room where you
Conducted open mics
You reminded me of T O Dye
A friend I knew in childhood
Who chased me around the house until my head
Lost direction and sense of space ,rammed
Itself into the corner wall, head hanging down on my mother's knee
And drops of deep red beautiful blood
Dripping drip drip drip drip on the green slate
I loved so much.
Joni Soule
Since you were 18
I think? I met you
At Milos, at a strange building
glaring wide walls and high ceilings
I believe you took me on a tour
Into a room where you
Conducted open mics
You reminded me of T O Dye
A friend I knew in childhood
Who chased me around the house until my head
Lost direction and sense of space ,rammed
Itself into the corner wall, head hanging down on my mother's knee
And drops of deep red beautiful blood
Dripping drip drip drip drip on the green slate
I loved so much.
Joni Soule
Good and Stoned
I want to get stoned.
I don’t need to get stoned. I just want to get stoned.
I so hope my friend will again bring me some pin joints.
It’s the only time I look forward to waiting for the man.
Unless I am getting a package from the big city and that’s happening less and less these days.
I want a pepperoni pizza.
I don’t need a pepperoni pizza. I just want a pepperoni pizza.
The coupons are sitting on the table and I so wish my mother would take the hint and order us a large pepperoni pizza and a two liter of coke.
It’s the only time I feel like talking to anyone.
When the delivery arrives I am on my feet and out the door faster than a speeding bullet.
My life lessons are not sinking in. And my survival instincts have been out to lunch since 2002.
I haven’t had steady employment for so long I’m not even sure if it’s day or night.
Please understand I am not bragging in the least little bit. In fact I am scared of the uncertainty of my future and why it is I am unable to make any plans stick.
My best friend died in 1998 and that surely took some wind out of my sails, but I know that’s hardly the reason I am at such a loss when it comes to living and thriving.
I’ve never used my being an artist as an excuse, justification or rationale for the piss poor way I get along and I refuse to start now.
I want to leave this place.
I don’t mean die or anything permanent like that. I just want to float for a little while and let my guard down and let my freak flag fly.
I so hope I’ll hear from my friend again soon. I am curious how his music projects are coming along.
We begin and we end with the sentences we construct from ether and bone. I know I’ve made a lasting impression. Now if only I could find the blueprints I left out in the pouring rain.
Charles Cicirella
2/4/15
I don’t need to get stoned. I just want to get stoned.
I so hope my friend will again bring me some pin joints.
It’s the only time I look forward to waiting for the man.
Unless I am getting a package from the big city and that’s happening less and less these days.
I want a pepperoni pizza.
I don’t need a pepperoni pizza. I just want a pepperoni pizza.
The coupons are sitting on the table and I so wish my mother would take the hint and order us a large pepperoni pizza and a two liter of coke.
It’s the only time I feel like talking to anyone.
When the delivery arrives I am on my feet and out the door faster than a speeding bullet.
My life lessons are not sinking in. And my survival instincts have been out to lunch since 2002.
I haven’t had steady employment for so long I’m not even sure if it’s day or night.
Please understand I am not bragging in the least little bit. In fact I am scared of the uncertainty of my future and why it is I am unable to make any plans stick.
My best friend died in 1998 and that surely took some wind out of my sails, but I know that’s hardly the reason I am at such a loss when it comes to living and thriving.
I’ve never used my being an artist as an excuse, justification or rationale for the piss poor way I get along and I refuse to start now.
I want to leave this place.
I don’t mean die or anything permanent like that. I just want to float for a little while and let my guard down and let my freak flag fly.
I so hope I’ll hear from my friend again soon. I am curious how his music projects are coming along.
We begin and we end with the sentences we construct from ether and bone. I know I’ve made a lasting impression. Now if only I could find the blueprints I left out in the pouring rain.
Charles Cicirella
2/4/15
Wednesday, February 04, 2015
Dr. Feel Nothing At All
(For Joni)
Where’s my highs?
I am tired of all these lows.
I desire some euphoria.
I’m tired of being bummed out and wishing I were dead.
Buddha came to me and told me to suck it up.
Jesus appeared before me and told me to live and let live.
Joan of Arc shot down from the sky like a lightning bolt and told me to never give up the fight.
Oscar the Grouch reminded me my childhood was not all locked cupboards and Jewish guilt.
Where’s my fifteen minutes?
I am tired of all these signals and warnings.
I desire some real desire.
I’m tired of being lost at sea and wish the sharks would devour me whole already.
Charles Cicirella
2/2/15
Where’s my highs?
I am tired of all these lows.
I desire some euphoria.
I’m tired of being bummed out and wishing I were dead.
Buddha came to me and told me to suck it up.
Jesus appeared before me and told me to live and let live.
Joan of Arc shot down from the sky like a lightning bolt and told me to never give up the fight.
Oscar the Grouch reminded me my childhood was not all locked cupboards and Jewish guilt.
Where’s my fifteen minutes?
I am tired of all these signals and warnings.
I desire some real desire.
I’m tired of being lost at sea and wish the sharks would devour me whole already.
Charles Cicirella
2/2/15
Monday, February 02, 2015
Building Blocks
Filling myself up with sugar.
I’m made out of Legos.
Paranoia my sunlight.
Sucrose the new crack.
I am a cheap Christmas toy. Batteries not included.
I am the general anesthesia you take for a surgical procedure.
I am the lap dancing Russian astrophysicist you believe will take you to the moon and back.
I am the thin blue line we goad ourselves into challenging in our most God forsaken of soap operas.
Filling myself up with revenge fantasies.
I’m made up of shit.
Intolerance my wedge issue.
Heroin the new heroine.
I am the old man and the sea. Bullets not included.
I am the reprobate you take for granted because my predilection for damnation hits too close to home for you.
I am the high school mascot you believe will cheer you up after you’ve been ravaged and left in the end zone like another under inflated pigskin.
I am the First Amendment protecting our free speech while doing absolutely nothing to protect ourselves from ourselves.
Filling myself up with sickness and disuse.
I’m made up of more not less.
Sadness my midnight hour.
Grey the new puce.
Charles Cicirella
2/1/15
I’m made out of Legos.
Paranoia my sunlight.
Sucrose the new crack.
I am a cheap Christmas toy. Batteries not included.
I am the general anesthesia you take for a surgical procedure.
I am the lap dancing Russian astrophysicist you believe will take you to the moon and back.
I am the thin blue line we goad ourselves into challenging in our most God forsaken of soap operas.
Filling myself up with revenge fantasies.
I’m made up of shit.
Intolerance my wedge issue.
Heroin the new heroine.
I am the old man and the sea. Bullets not included.
I am the reprobate you take for granted because my predilection for damnation hits too close to home for you.
I am the high school mascot you believe will cheer you up after you’ve been ravaged and left in the end zone like another under inflated pigskin.
I am the First Amendment protecting our free speech while doing absolutely nothing to protect ourselves from ourselves.
Filling myself up with sickness and disuse.
I’m made up of more not less.
Sadness my midnight hour.
Grey the new puce.
Charles Cicirella
2/1/15
Saturday, January 31, 2015
Cascade
I desire to paint you unclothed in my closeted mind.
I so badly want to witness your belly button. Which I believe resembles da Vinci’s The Last Supper minus the religious overtones.
I need to bowl a strike with you naked while drinking Guinness straight from the leprechaun’s engorged penis.
I’m not one for pussy footing around and when it comes to small talk you can count me out.
We could stand around having a pissing contest to see who has the greater intellect or we can call it a draw and get down to watching Netflix in bed while eating Chinese food and lowering our guards.
I used to believe in a second coming before finally accepting women have men beat hands down when it comes to multiple orgasms and the heavy lifting of hostage negotiations.
I am drawn to you like a moth to a flame. Drawn to you like Welch's 100% Grape Juice to a Valentino lace blouse.
I desire to sculpt you with the most unarchaic of prose.
I so badly want to not want you and know I am barking up the wrong tree. Which I believe resembles Bob Ross’s “happy little trees” minus the public broadcasting.
I need to give my wanton desires a break, go to a bar, order a Coca Cola and throw some darts. Think about something, anything other than you standing there on fire in the freezing rain.
Charles Cicirella
1/25/15
I so badly want to witness your belly button. Which I believe resembles da Vinci’s The Last Supper minus the religious overtones.
I need to bowl a strike with you naked while drinking Guinness straight from the leprechaun’s engorged penis.
I’m not one for pussy footing around and when it comes to small talk you can count me out.
We could stand around having a pissing contest to see who has the greater intellect or we can call it a draw and get down to watching Netflix in bed while eating Chinese food and lowering our guards.
I used to believe in a second coming before finally accepting women have men beat hands down when it comes to multiple orgasms and the heavy lifting of hostage negotiations.
I am drawn to you like a moth to a flame. Drawn to you like Welch's 100% Grape Juice to a Valentino lace blouse.
I desire to sculpt you with the most unarchaic of prose.
I so badly want to not want you and know I am barking up the wrong tree. Which I believe resembles Bob Ross’s “happy little trees” minus the public broadcasting.
I need to give my wanton desires a break, go to a bar, order a Coca Cola and throw some darts. Think about something, anything other than you standing there on fire in the freezing rain.
Charles Cicirella
1/25/15
Tuesday, January 20, 2015
Slumlord
Take off your tee-shirt.
You know how much I love your small breasts.
I promise to suck on one at a time even though they’d both fit easily into my big mouth.
Take off your leggings.
You know how much I’ve always loved your plum shaped ass.
I promise no funny business until you’re completely naked and found something we both can watch on television.
There’s no disputing that when we dated it was like an anti-Semite and a Jew hanging out while cities burned and America lost its new car smell.
There’s no denying how freakish I acted when you found someone else to carve pumpkins with.
I’ll never forget that pay phone on King Avenue and repeatedly hitting myself in the head with the handset when you hung up for the final time.
They tore down the apartment building of our love because we were slumlords of our own desperate and deplorable fantasies.
They built a 7-Eleven on the sacred ground where we once fucked like two malnourished bunny rabbits strung out on Camel cigarettes and Krispy Kreme Doughnuts.
I always believed that you were out of my league and I have this gnawing, sick feeling you felt the same as we exited the war-torn structure admitting to nothing while writing our poetry in blood and other less favorable liquid refreshments.
Charles Cicirella
1/17/15
You know how much I love your small breasts.
I promise to suck on one at a time even though they’d both fit easily into my big mouth.
Take off your leggings.
You know how much I’ve always loved your plum shaped ass.
I promise no funny business until you’re completely naked and found something we both can watch on television.
There’s no disputing that when we dated it was like an anti-Semite and a Jew hanging out while cities burned and America lost its new car smell.
There’s no denying how freakish I acted when you found someone else to carve pumpkins with.
I’ll never forget that pay phone on King Avenue and repeatedly hitting myself in the head with the handset when you hung up for the final time.
They tore down the apartment building of our love because we were slumlords of our own desperate and deplorable fantasies.
They built a 7-Eleven on the sacred ground where we once fucked like two malnourished bunny rabbits strung out on Camel cigarettes and Krispy Kreme Doughnuts.
I always believed that you were out of my league and I have this gnawing, sick feeling you felt the same as we exited the war-torn structure admitting to nothing while writing our poetry in blood and other less favorable liquid refreshments.
Charles Cicirella
1/17/15
Thursday, January 15, 2015
Disjointed
Proof of purchase.
Gift receipt.
Liberal intentions.
Conservative conjecture.
Tired of washing my mouth out with soap.
Tired of shielding my eyes from this appendage called a penis.
Tied of lashing out at ghosts and fairy godmothers.
I thought we had hammered out a deal.
I thought we had a plan in place that did not belittle or disrespect our core beliefs.
I have a tendency to overthink things until they’re buried deep in the earth where no one and nothing will ever reach them.
K-Y Jelly.
Family Ties.
Lionized antecedents.
Tattooed reparations.
Charles Cicirella
1/13/15
Gift receipt.
Liberal intentions.
Conservative conjecture.
Tired of washing my mouth out with soap.
Tired of shielding my eyes from this appendage called a penis.
Tied of lashing out at ghosts and fairy godmothers.
I thought we had hammered out a deal.
I thought we had a plan in place that did not belittle or disrespect our core beliefs.
I have a tendency to overthink things until they’re buried deep in the earth where no one and nothing will ever reach them.
K-Y Jelly.
Family Ties.
Lionized antecedents.
Tattooed reparations.
Charles Cicirella
1/13/15
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