http://charlespoet.podomatic.com/entry/2015-06-21T13_49_45-07_00
Come here.
I need to lower my guard and leave it down for a really long time.
I want to feel your body pressed against mine as Brautigan’s words slide down the bannister into our hungry and unshielded hearts.
Come here.
My mind is made up it’s time I hightailed it to Maryland and met you outside in the tall grass where we can hide from everyone except each other as it should be.
When I think of you new lines of poetry come into my head and I know it’s the same for you.
I just grabbed my nose and it reminded me of when I was a child and my grandfather would grab my nose and make quarters come out of it.
We’re all magicians in our own way making the things in our lives that we cannot comprehend disappear.
Denial has become a trusted ally as I do my very best to accept the isolation as an opportunity to actually do something with my life and this creativity as a hammer smashing through all the white noise.
Come here.
It’s time we grabbed hold of each other and stopped pretending we don’t feel injured when things don’t go our way and there’s nothing we can do about it.
I need to feel more than just your intellectual prowess as your mouth opens upon mine and our inner children share the same swing and we walk naked through Death Valley with the hot sun beating down on our poetic flesh.
Charles Cicirella
6/20/15
Sunday, June 21, 2015
Saturday, June 20, 2015
Heavy Lifting
http://charlespoet.podomatic.com/entry/2015-06-20T12_49_36-07_00
Pick up your heart from the floor.
It’s time you learned to read the writing on the wall.
It’s time we started to heal our insatiable wounds.
Nine lives were lost in that church.
Nine lives that will never breathe another breath.
It’s not enough to express our sympathy. It’s not hardly enough saying we’re sorry for your loss.
When did we stop doing the heavy lifting?
When did we give the people with no brains in their head a free pass to blow up our world with their fear and their hatred and their ignorance?
America the beautiful must again find its place in the sun and stop accepting mediocre as a job well done.
Pick up your brains from the stone cold floor.
Some people don’t get a second chance and fairy tales only tell half the story.
Politics as usual is no longer an acceptable defense. We know damn well what the right thing is to do and we better start asking ourselves immediately why we’re not doing it.
Charles Cicirella
6/20/15
Pick up your heart from the floor.
It’s time you learned to read the writing on the wall.
It’s time we started to heal our insatiable wounds.
Nine lives were lost in that church.
Nine lives that will never breathe another breath.
It’s not enough to express our sympathy. It’s not hardly enough saying we’re sorry for your loss.
When did we stop doing the heavy lifting?
When did we give the people with no brains in their head a free pass to blow up our world with their fear and their hatred and their ignorance?
America the beautiful must again find its place in the sun and stop accepting mediocre as a job well done.
Pick up your brains from the stone cold floor.
Some people don’t get a second chance and fairy tales only tell half the story.
Politics as usual is no longer an acceptable defense. We know damn well what the right thing is to do and we better start asking ourselves immediately why we’re not doing it.
Charles Cicirella
6/20/15
Thursday, June 18, 2015
Creaky Bones
Choking on a fingernail for the past couple of hours.
As I stirred sugar into my coffee this morning I started to think about my creaky bones.
I’m tired of how some people bring God into everything. Like it or not though God is right there with us every step of the way and thankfully there is nothing that can be done about that.
Lou Donaldson’s “Autumn Nocturne” is playing and even though it’s only June this music perfectly fits my mood and carries me through the Chariots of Fire thunderstorms I’m currently experiencing.
Ian and Sylvia is up next and that’s sure to put me in an entirely different frame of mind.
My creaky bones are ready to cut a rug even though I have next to no rhythm and look more like the gopher from Caddyshack than Fred Astaire when I "Shake a Tail Feather.”
I would like to continue where we left off, but have this uncomfortable feeling that you were never really all that into me and would prefer to cut your losses before our relationship becomes a knife fight that no one walks away from.
Domestic abuse is never sexy especially when the police get involved and someone gets led away in handcuffs
At any moment my creaky bones might just stage an uprising and before you know it I’ll vanish like some aging puff of smoke that had no business being here in the first place.
Charles Cicirella
6/18/15
As I stirred sugar into my coffee this morning I started to think about my creaky bones.
I’m tired of how some people bring God into everything. Like it or not though God is right there with us every step of the way and thankfully there is nothing that can be done about that.
Lou Donaldson’s “Autumn Nocturne” is playing and even though it’s only June this music perfectly fits my mood and carries me through the Chariots of Fire thunderstorms I’m currently experiencing.
Ian and Sylvia is up next and that’s sure to put me in an entirely different frame of mind.
My creaky bones are ready to cut a rug even though I have next to no rhythm and look more like the gopher from Caddyshack than Fred Astaire when I "Shake a Tail Feather.”
I would like to continue where we left off, but have this uncomfortable feeling that you were never really all that into me and would prefer to cut your losses before our relationship becomes a knife fight that no one walks away from.
Domestic abuse is never sexy especially when the police get involved and someone gets led away in handcuffs
At any moment my creaky bones might just stage an uprising and before you know it I’ll vanish like some aging puff of smoke that had no business being here in the first place.
Charles Cicirella
6/18/15
Tuesday, June 16, 2015
Frame of Mood
http://charlespoet.podomatic.com/entry/2015-06-16T20_50_28-07_00
I’m not writing this poem out of desperation.
I’m not writing this poem out of loneliness or contempt.
I cannot believe we found each other.
I’m at a loss for words as my frame of mood is unframed by your passionate whispered longings.
Move over I want to sit next to you on the park bench.
Move over I want to feel your warmth as we feed the pigeons and forget we’ve not eaten since before Christ was a Prophet never a pretender.
I believe it’s time we give these shallow celebrity poets a run for their blue money by delivering unto them the unleavened creativity of a people chosen to do the work because the work was worn-out from being left half done and half baked.
Move over I want to stand with you alongside the burning bush leaving nothing any longer to chance as we break the speed of sound by simply opening our eyes to the next new sunrise.
I’m not writing this poem because I have anything to say.
I’m not writing this poem out of a sense of duty or a feeling that someone needs to break open the silences with profound insights or riveting reveals.
I’m just tired of everyone, including myself, skirting the issues and understand there is much more work to be done before a reckoning can arrive and a people are delivered to the Promise Land
You were walking your dog when you called. As we talked I imagined your hands all over my body making me feel like I wasn’t a filthy, smelly human being, but was instead a blossoming flower with so much promise and so much still to look forward to.
Charles Cicirella
6/16/15
I’m not writing this poem out of desperation.
I’m not writing this poem out of loneliness or contempt.
I cannot believe we found each other.
I’m at a loss for words as my frame of mood is unframed by your passionate whispered longings.
Move over I want to sit next to you on the park bench.
Move over I want to feel your warmth as we feed the pigeons and forget we’ve not eaten since before Christ was a Prophet never a pretender.
I believe it’s time we give these shallow celebrity poets a run for their blue money by delivering unto them the unleavened creativity of a people chosen to do the work because the work was worn-out from being left half done and half baked.
Move over I want to stand with you alongside the burning bush leaving nothing any longer to chance as we break the speed of sound by simply opening our eyes to the next new sunrise.
I’m not writing this poem because I have anything to say.
I’m not writing this poem out of a sense of duty or a feeling that someone needs to break open the silences with profound insights or riveting reveals.
I’m just tired of everyone, including myself, skirting the issues and understand there is much more work to be done before a reckoning can arrive and a people are delivered to the Promise Land
You were walking your dog when you called. As we talked I imagined your hands all over my body making me feel like I wasn’t a filthy, smelly human being, but was instead a blossoming flower with so much promise and so much still to look forward to.
Charles Cicirella
6/16/15
Friday, June 12, 2015
Our Craven Inability to Believe In Ourselves
http://charlespoet.podomatic.com/entry/2015-06-12T14_26_52-07_00
She has no reason to worry because I’m not going anyplace.
I still want her in big and small ways. Nothing has changed. I just sometimes need a break from staring at the computer’s frozen face.
And it’s incredible how we both jump to the same troubling conclusions because we’re not used to anyone really being into us and going the extra mile for us.
I want to put my arms around her like the sun and quiet her worries that I’ve found someone else to smear my words all over like sunscreen or whipped cream.
The words pour from me like a fire hydrant in Brooklyn in the 1970’s. This was when the prostitute was New York's state bird and you could pick up any drug on any corner for a relatively low price.
This was way before political correctness bit us in the ass and the Christian right took us hostage with their narrow minded views on everything and anything under the sun. I want to live my life on my own terms and not have to always worry about the next shoe to drop especially when I’ve been going barefoot since before the serpent penetrated Eve for the final time.
Make way I’m coming and I’m bringing buttery popcorn and ice-cream and chocolate and all of those things you love to nosh on but can’t because of your diet.
She doesn’t have to worry about me leaving the building because I’ve been a shut-in since before I can even remember. Solitary confinement means nothing to me not since discovering how vast a kingdom my mind is.
And it’s truly amazing how we both suffer from low self-esteem. It makes sense though when physical intimacy is something neither one of us has experienced in more than a coon’s age. And we’re both getting older. And we’re both getting wiser. And we’re both getting lonelier.
I want her to put both her arms around me like I am the moon and this nursery rhyme will come to fruition once we let go of all those pesky voices in our butterfly hearts and cement block heads.
Charles Cicirella
6/12/15
She has no reason to worry because I’m not going anyplace.
I still want her in big and small ways. Nothing has changed. I just sometimes need a break from staring at the computer’s frozen face.
And it’s incredible how we both jump to the same troubling conclusions because we’re not used to anyone really being into us and going the extra mile for us.
I want to put my arms around her like the sun and quiet her worries that I’ve found someone else to smear my words all over like sunscreen or whipped cream.
The words pour from me like a fire hydrant in Brooklyn in the 1970’s. This was when the prostitute was New York's state bird and you could pick up any drug on any corner for a relatively low price.
This was way before political correctness bit us in the ass and the Christian right took us hostage with their narrow minded views on everything and anything under the sun. I want to live my life on my own terms and not have to always worry about the next shoe to drop especially when I’ve been going barefoot since before the serpent penetrated Eve for the final time.
Make way I’m coming and I’m bringing buttery popcorn and ice-cream and chocolate and all of those things you love to nosh on but can’t because of your diet.
She doesn’t have to worry about me leaving the building because I’ve been a shut-in since before I can even remember. Solitary confinement means nothing to me not since discovering how vast a kingdom my mind is.
And it’s truly amazing how we both suffer from low self-esteem. It makes sense though when physical intimacy is something neither one of us has experienced in more than a coon’s age. And we’re both getting older. And we’re both getting wiser. And we’re both getting lonelier.
I want her to put both her arms around me like I am the moon and this nursery rhyme will come to fruition once we let go of all those pesky voices in our butterfly hearts and cement block heads.
Charles Cicirella
6/12/15
Niagara Falls
(For Dan Klute)
http://charlespoet.podomatic.com/entry/2015-06-12T13_27_24-07_00
I drink so very little water I’m pissing caffeine.
I promised in another recent poem I’d cease and desist from writing about my bodily functions and yet here I go again.
My friend Dan understands and that is why I’m dedicating this poem to him.
Water and I do not get along which is totally crazy when the average adult human body is 50-65% water.
Here’s another bizzaro fact. I am a water sign and yet do not know how to swim. In fact to be perfectly honest I’m afraid of water especially the deep end.
Sometimes when we’re hanging out I think it would be easier climbing into a barrel and getting pushed over Niagara Falls. Neither one of us is a walk in the park and that’s putting it mildly, but it’s also a key component to why, I believe, it is we both keep coming back for more.
I drink so very little water the sweat pouring from my glands is comprised of mostly Coca-Cola.
I understand California is experiencing an epic drought to which I can completely relate to. Their golf courses though are still green because recreation always seems to take precedent over salvation no matter how poorly you slice the ball into the burning woods.
My friend Dan gets what I’m saying and drinks a glass of water every chance he gets. He’s as smart as a whip and delivers the genuine goods without batting an eye. Me I’m still as dry as a bone and wish somebody I loved would hold me under the water just for the sake of getting wet and saving myself from dry rot.
Charles Cicirella
6/11/15
http://charlespoet.podomatic.com/entry/2015-06-12T13_27_24-07_00
I drink so very little water I’m pissing caffeine.
I promised in another recent poem I’d cease and desist from writing about my bodily functions and yet here I go again.
My friend Dan understands and that is why I’m dedicating this poem to him.
Water and I do not get along which is totally crazy when the average adult human body is 50-65% water.
Here’s another bizzaro fact. I am a water sign and yet do not know how to swim. In fact to be perfectly honest I’m afraid of water especially the deep end.
Sometimes when we’re hanging out I think it would be easier climbing into a barrel and getting pushed over Niagara Falls. Neither one of us is a walk in the park and that’s putting it mildly, but it’s also a key component to why, I believe, it is we both keep coming back for more.
I drink so very little water the sweat pouring from my glands is comprised of mostly Coca-Cola.
I understand California is experiencing an epic drought to which I can completely relate to. Their golf courses though are still green because recreation always seems to take precedent over salvation no matter how poorly you slice the ball into the burning woods.
My friend Dan gets what I’m saying and drinks a glass of water every chance he gets. He’s as smart as a whip and delivers the genuine goods without batting an eye. Me I’m still as dry as a bone and wish somebody I loved would hold me under the water just for the sake of getting wet and saving myself from dry rot.
Charles Cicirella
6/11/15
Poetessa II
http://charlespoet.podomatic.com/entry/2015-06-10T22_23_15-07_00
You make my intellect hard with your wind chime wordage and passionate declarations of unwavering interdependence.
I was frozen in space when you appeared out of the motel-vacancy-cold. I discover myself thawing out and open to new trains of unregulated thought and being.
My loins ache for you as I consume your poetry from the inside out and the outside in. I’m a better person for it. And I’m a better poet for it too.
I am a feral poet. No fan of academia and never very adept at fitting in. I find my words in the roadkill at the side of the road. I’m not afraid of picking up a dead animal with my bare hands and turning it into something beautiful with my stark-naked brain.
Jim Murray sprang the word intellect on me when I was just a pup. I’m still running away from his left handed compliments and doing my best to make some sense out of his blood on the tracks heroic paranoia.
I cannot wait till you allow your freak flag to fly. Cannot wait till you realize just how much talent you possess and stop making excuses for everyone else’s shortcomings.
Oftentimes breaking bad is the only direction left to head. I believe you must soon get in touch with the superhero existing deep inside of you.
You make things easier with every message I receive from you.
I am so sick and tired of not living up to my full potential, but when talking to you I know anything is possible and that we’re all bound for glory!
There is nothing sexier than talking about books and I absolutely love how you understand that and keep playing off my most obvious and obnoxious of flirtations.
I want for us to read to each other in a well lit room where no one and nothing will disturb us. I cannot wait to spread my cadence onto a cracker and feed it to you like a baby bird.
Charles Cicirella
6/10/15
You make my intellect hard with your wind chime wordage and passionate declarations of unwavering interdependence.
I was frozen in space when you appeared out of the motel-vacancy-cold. I discover myself thawing out and open to new trains of unregulated thought and being.
My loins ache for you as I consume your poetry from the inside out and the outside in. I’m a better person for it. And I’m a better poet for it too.
I am a feral poet. No fan of academia and never very adept at fitting in. I find my words in the roadkill at the side of the road. I’m not afraid of picking up a dead animal with my bare hands and turning it into something beautiful with my stark-naked brain.
Jim Murray sprang the word intellect on me when I was just a pup. I’m still running away from his left handed compliments and doing my best to make some sense out of his blood on the tracks heroic paranoia.
I cannot wait till you allow your freak flag to fly. Cannot wait till you realize just how much talent you possess and stop making excuses for everyone else’s shortcomings.
Oftentimes breaking bad is the only direction left to head. I believe you must soon get in touch with the superhero existing deep inside of you.
You make things easier with every message I receive from you.
I am so sick and tired of not living up to my full potential, but when talking to you I know anything is possible and that we’re all bound for glory!
There is nothing sexier than talking about books and I absolutely love how you understand that and keep playing off my most obvious and obnoxious of flirtations.
I want for us to read to each other in a well lit room where no one and nothing will disturb us. I cannot wait to spread my cadence onto a cracker and feed it to you like a baby bird.
Charles Cicirella
6/10/15
THAT
http://charlespoet.podomatic.com/entry/2015-06-09T10_14_46-07_00
Her poetry.
Brings me. Through.
A heatwave.
On my intellect’s inner nature.
From across the universe.
The temerity of her words.
A sonic boom.
A Savior’s healing wounds.
Isolated dead weight.
On the borders of hungry love.
For you.
Charles Eric Cicirella
6/9/15
Her poetry.
Brings me. Through.
A heatwave.
On my intellect’s inner nature.
From across the universe.
The temerity of her words.
A sonic boom.
A Savior’s healing wounds.
Isolated dead weight.
On the borders of hungry love.
For you.
Charles Eric Cicirella
6/9/15
Monday, June 08, 2015
Despondent
http://charlespoet.podomatic.com/entry/2015-06-08T11_12_30-07_00
I don’t want to write another poem about going to the bathroom.
Someone said to me the other day when talking about poets in Cleveland, Ohio that we’re all pretty much at the same level of writing ability. I could not believe my ears and I could not disagree with this person more. They also said none of us were the next Kerouac to which I thought there already was one Jack Kerouac why does there need to be another.
I’m despondent.
Despondent to my lethargy
Despondent to this inoperable tumor I’m being led to believe is my human spirit.
I’m despondent to the thought of writing the next great American novel like Stanford or Brautigan did and then being forgotten or worse yet misplaced in the annals of popular culture.
Forget we ever had this conversation. I’m going to go suck on an exhaust pipe and pray to God it kills me or at the very least takes me temporarily out of commission.
I’m through writing about my bodily functions and how they do or do not agree with me.
I thought sharing was caring until realizing no one cares and that I was basically sharing with a bunch of imaginary people I had made up in both my heart and head.
I thought we cared about each other until you started acting all haughty about money I supposedly owed you and then took three hundred dollars out of my bank account.
I don’t feel like writing a poem about someone, anyone taking me to the cleaners.
I’m despondent.
When asked what my next move will be I do my best to say very little and never look my assailant in the eye.
Oftentimes you are being raked over the coals even when you don’t realize it’s happening. All of a sudden your bum is sore and everyone is pointing at you like you’re on fire.
I’m desperately unhappy.
Forget you ever made the effort to read this poem and I’ll forgive you for your trespasses the next time you are on your knees putting someone, anyone into your mouth just to pass the time and make you feel even the least little bit alive.
Charles Cicirella
6/7/15
I don’t want to write another poem about going to the bathroom.
Someone said to me the other day when talking about poets in Cleveland, Ohio that we’re all pretty much at the same level of writing ability. I could not believe my ears and I could not disagree with this person more. They also said none of us were the next Kerouac to which I thought there already was one Jack Kerouac why does there need to be another.
I’m despondent.
Despondent to my lethargy
Despondent to this inoperable tumor I’m being led to believe is my human spirit.
I’m despondent to the thought of writing the next great American novel like Stanford or Brautigan did and then being forgotten or worse yet misplaced in the annals of popular culture.
Forget we ever had this conversation. I’m going to go suck on an exhaust pipe and pray to God it kills me or at the very least takes me temporarily out of commission.
I’m through writing about my bodily functions and how they do or do not agree with me.
I thought sharing was caring until realizing no one cares and that I was basically sharing with a bunch of imaginary people I had made up in both my heart and head.
I thought we cared about each other until you started acting all haughty about money I supposedly owed you and then took three hundred dollars out of my bank account.
I don’t feel like writing a poem about someone, anyone taking me to the cleaners.
I’m despondent.
When asked what my next move will be I do my best to say very little and never look my assailant in the eye.
Oftentimes you are being raked over the coals even when you don’t realize it’s happening. All of a sudden your bum is sore and everyone is pointing at you like you’re on fire.
I’m desperately unhappy.
Forget you ever made the effort to read this poem and I’ll forgive you for your trespasses the next time you are on your knees putting someone, anyone into your mouth just to pass the time and make you feel even the least little bit alive.
Charles Cicirella
6/7/15
Monday, June 01, 2015
Poetessa
http://charlespoet.podomatic.com/entry/2015-06-01T21_04_04-07_00
I wonder if she was tempted in the least little bit to call after I gave her my cell number?
We could talk about nothing and just listen to the other one breathe.
We could talk about everything including the love like some raven at our window with a broken wing.
I stole part of that last line, but I’m sure he’ll understand and not be too miffed with my poetic theft.
Repurposing is all the rage in these days of bird flu and designer ice-cream that will kill you if you give it just half a chance.
It’s a slippery slope believing in your heart of hearts that you’re an artist when in your everyday life you refuse to allow anything to take seed and grow like the tallest tree or shortest poet.
I wonder where she came out of all of a sudden.
I swear she appeared when my back was turned and like an orphan with his gun I stood there crying like a fire in the sun.
I’ve done it again. Repurposed one of the traveling troubadour’s great lines. Of course who knows where he may have picked it up at because isn’t creating just like a game of Pick-up Sticks? The sticks in this case are red hot pokers and we’re all looking to leave our brand on someone else’s unsuspecting cattle.
I was at a loss for words then I cleared my throat and accepted a s'more from a man who never fails to make me smile and feel good about myself.
I thought the s’more would be sickening sweet but because he used bittersweet chocolate I found myself wanting another but too shy to ask for a second one.
I am reading her poem as I hold my breath and discover myself feeling like Henry Limpet with all his daydreams of being a fish locked in so tightly into my craven heart.
We must tear ourselves down to the very foundation before we can rebuild in the image of something completely profane or sacred depending on both our outlook on things and the Kool-Aid we’ve been drinking.
I’ve noticed how closely she holds her cards to her chest. Something I can thoroughly relate to because this world can’t stand long and while we’re hanging around it’s best we’re comfortable with those we choose to hang out with and get to know intimately or otherwise.
She just told me she loves black licorice which I can completely concur with and has me now thinking about Black Jack chewing gum and how sad it is that such complexity is lost in our flavorless and thread barren modern times.
I wonder if she was tempted in the least little bit to call and how at ease I would be talking to a stranger who is quickly becoming a muse and a friend.
Charles Cicirella
6/1/15
I wonder if she was tempted in the least little bit to call after I gave her my cell number?
We could talk about nothing and just listen to the other one breathe.
We could talk about everything including the love like some raven at our window with a broken wing.
I stole part of that last line, but I’m sure he’ll understand and not be too miffed with my poetic theft.
Repurposing is all the rage in these days of bird flu and designer ice-cream that will kill you if you give it just half a chance.
It’s a slippery slope believing in your heart of hearts that you’re an artist when in your everyday life you refuse to allow anything to take seed and grow like the tallest tree or shortest poet.
I wonder where she came out of all of a sudden.
I swear she appeared when my back was turned and like an orphan with his gun I stood there crying like a fire in the sun.
I’ve done it again. Repurposed one of the traveling troubadour’s great lines. Of course who knows where he may have picked it up at because isn’t creating just like a game of Pick-up Sticks? The sticks in this case are red hot pokers and we’re all looking to leave our brand on someone else’s unsuspecting cattle.
I was at a loss for words then I cleared my throat and accepted a s'more from a man who never fails to make me smile and feel good about myself.
I thought the s’more would be sickening sweet but because he used bittersweet chocolate I found myself wanting another but too shy to ask for a second one.
I am reading her poem as I hold my breath and discover myself feeling like Henry Limpet with all his daydreams of being a fish locked in so tightly into my craven heart.
We must tear ourselves down to the very foundation before we can rebuild in the image of something completely profane or sacred depending on both our outlook on things and the Kool-Aid we’ve been drinking.
I’ve noticed how closely she holds her cards to her chest. Something I can thoroughly relate to because this world can’t stand long and while we’re hanging around it’s best we’re comfortable with those we choose to hang out with and get to know intimately or otherwise.
She just told me she loves black licorice which I can completely concur with and has me now thinking about Black Jack chewing gum and how sad it is that such complexity is lost in our flavorless and thread barren modern times.
I wonder if she was tempted in the least little bit to call and how at ease I would be talking to a stranger who is quickly becoming a muse and a friend.
Charles Cicirella
6/1/15
Deceit & Treachery
http://charlespoet.podomatic.com/entry/2015-06-03T21_57_53-07_00
I started lying to myself.
I can’t tell you exactly when this practice began.
It was either that or trying to communicate more, but to be perfectly honest I’m sick and tired of getting lost in translation.
I like you because you’re easy to understand.
Plus you’re not totally automated which is a huge bonus for a man like me who prefers the do it yourself approach over the wait around until someone else does it for you approach.
If these words prove to be ineffective I’ll go hide in the corner praying everyone forgets I was here or was ever even born.
My parents tell me I was planned which I find rather surprising considering my life up till now has had no blueprint and for escape hatches I’m afraid even those have long been wallpapered over.
Thinking about calling it a day.
Thinking about eating a cherry cheese Danish and drinking a glass of Coca-Cola.
I’ll settle for the latter and wish I’d done the former when all is said and done and the laundry is brought in from the clothesline.
I like her freckles and her emoticons.
I was going to give her my cell number and tell her to call the next time she couldn’t fall asleep but didn’t want to give her the wrong impression or maybe I did.
I’ve never stopped telling myself exactly how it is.
I can tell you the precise moment the light started to shine and a dark night of the soul was placed on permanent hold.
Writing is not an exercise for me nor is it a hobby or something I take lightly like riding the Silver Beach Carousel or swimming in the great white shark infested Atlantic Ocean.
When realizing deceit and treachery were her idea of foreplay that is when I should have run for the hills and never looked back.
Charles Cicirella
5/31/15
I started lying to myself.
I can’t tell you exactly when this practice began.
It was either that or trying to communicate more, but to be perfectly honest I’m sick and tired of getting lost in translation.
I like you because you’re easy to understand.
Plus you’re not totally automated which is a huge bonus for a man like me who prefers the do it yourself approach over the wait around until someone else does it for you approach.
If these words prove to be ineffective I’ll go hide in the corner praying everyone forgets I was here or was ever even born.
My parents tell me I was planned which I find rather surprising considering my life up till now has had no blueprint and for escape hatches I’m afraid even those have long been wallpapered over.
Thinking about calling it a day.
Thinking about eating a cherry cheese Danish and drinking a glass of Coca-Cola.
I’ll settle for the latter and wish I’d done the former when all is said and done and the laundry is brought in from the clothesline.
I like her freckles and her emoticons.
I was going to give her my cell number and tell her to call the next time she couldn’t fall asleep but didn’t want to give her the wrong impression or maybe I did.
I’ve never stopped telling myself exactly how it is.
I can tell you the precise moment the light started to shine and a dark night of the soul was placed on permanent hold.
Writing is not an exercise for me nor is it a hobby or something I take lightly like riding the Silver Beach Carousel or swimming in the great white shark infested Atlantic Ocean.
When realizing deceit and treachery were her idea of foreplay that is when I should have run for the hills and never looked back.
Charles Cicirella
5/31/15
Sunday, March 29, 2015
Sugar and Caffeine
http://charlespoet.podomatic.com/entry/2015-03-29T14_51_56-07_00
Standing there mixing dry creamer into my instant coffee.
It’s become a ritual when I wake up and crawl back into the world.
I just took a sip of the delicious brew and actually felt it wake me up and pat me on the head.
I hated when I was a kid having to mow the lawn. It just seemed like the ultimate waste of time. I mean seriously why can’t the lawn just grow? What’s wrong with living in the jungle in the middle of suburbia like a drug lord or exiled dictator?
To this day I am still angry with myself for not taking my dog Bogie out for more walks. He was like my very hairy younger brother and he deserved better than he got.
It wasn’t easy writing that last line as the pangs of regret line up and take turns kicking me squarely in the gut. I was fourteen years old and to be perfectly honest it was only Bogie that really even wanted to hang out with me and always seemed to love me unconditionally.
At forty five years old I have no pets except for my ego which I also keep in the garage, but I walk it more frequently because I have learned my lesson and my ego deserves no less than to be treated like the king it surely is.
Someone recently told me they felt I came across with a sense of entitlement. It’s true that I do feel entitled in some small or large degree depending on the situation, but what this person fails to understand is that we’re all preexisting in glass houses of self-entitlement and privilege and that there is nothing wrong with that as long as we don’t become too full of ourselves and end up catching fire and crashing like the Hindenburg.
I’m not whining in the least little bit. I am only telling it like I believe it is and that is all any of us can do as we survive, thrive and ultimately come to an end on this merry-go-round of grind and labor.
The coffee is now cold, but that’s okay I’ll drink it anyway because it’s the caffeine and sugar I crave not the flavor or ridiculous social convention.
I know all of this sugar in my body is not a good thing and maybe it’s true that I am a sugar junkie, but at least I stay away from the harder drugs like alcohol, heroin and being a Republican.
Charles Cicirella
3/29/15
Standing there mixing dry creamer into my instant coffee.
It’s become a ritual when I wake up and crawl back into the world.
I just took a sip of the delicious brew and actually felt it wake me up and pat me on the head.
I hated when I was a kid having to mow the lawn. It just seemed like the ultimate waste of time. I mean seriously why can’t the lawn just grow? What’s wrong with living in the jungle in the middle of suburbia like a drug lord or exiled dictator?
To this day I am still angry with myself for not taking my dog Bogie out for more walks. He was like my very hairy younger brother and he deserved better than he got.
It wasn’t easy writing that last line as the pangs of regret line up and take turns kicking me squarely in the gut. I was fourteen years old and to be perfectly honest it was only Bogie that really even wanted to hang out with me and always seemed to love me unconditionally.
At forty five years old I have no pets except for my ego which I also keep in the garage, but I walk it more frequently because I have learned my lesson and my ego deserves no less than to be treated like the king it surely is.
Someone recently told me they felt I came across with a sense of entitlement. It’s true that I do feel entitled in some small or large degree depending on the situation, but what this person fails to understand is that we’re all preexisting in glass houses of self-entitlement and privilege and that there is nothing wrong with that as long as we don’t become too full of ourselves and end up catching fire and crashing like the Hindenburg.
I’m not whining in the least little bit. I am only telling it like I believe it is and that is all any of us can do as we survive, thrive and ultimately come to an end on this merry-go-round of grind and labor.
The coffee is now cold, but that’s okay I’ll drink it anyway because it’s the caffeine and sugar I crave not the flavor or ridiculous social convention.
I know all of this sugar in my body is not a good thing and maybe it’s true that I am a sugar junkie, but at least I stay away from the harder drugs like alcohol, heroin and being a Republican.
Charles Cicirella
3/29/15
PB & J
http://charlespoet.podomatic.com/entry/2015-03-29T04_11_27-07_00
I want to eat you up like a pb & j.
Slather on the grape jelly like I was your favorite Little Rascal.
Leave what I do with the peanut butter to your most fertile of imaginings.
We begin as Children of Paradise and if we’re lucky we’re not sold off to the highest bidder, strapped with a bomb around our chest and delivered to a town square where unsuspecting people are going to die for no other reason than God has left this part of the world a long, long time ago.
It’s time to eat a pb & j and do my very best to forget my troubles and woes.
My sister brought me groceries today along with a large pepperoni pizza and allergy medicine. We have not connected much the past few years. In fact we’ve never really connected all that much to begin with, but we’re still family and when we hugged and said our I love you’s I felt a sense of family that I have not felt in many years.
We must learn to cease and desist from taking ourselves for granted.
It’s 3:53 AM and I swear my inner child is somewhere amid all of this clutter I like to pretend is my life when in truth my life is free range and cannot be domesticated.
I believe it’s high time I served myself with a search warrant and discovered once and for all where all of the bodies and freeze dried tears have been buried.
I’m going to go into the kitchen in a few minutes and make myself a sandwich and pour myself another glass of Coca Cola.
My favorite Little Rascal was probably Alfalfa even though both Spanky and Mickey rank up there at the very top of my list.
I remember episodes of this show better than I remember episodes from my own childhood. Life is funny that way continually keeping you guessing and wanting more until you end up drunk, banging on someone’s door, demanding fifty bucks for a hunting dog you’d loaned out and never been compensated for.
Charles Cicirella
3/29/15
I want to eat you up like a pb & j.
Slather on the grape jelly like I was your favorite Little Rascal.
Leave what I do with the peanut butter to your most fertile of imaginings.
We begin as Children of Paradise and if we’re lucky we’re not sold off to the highest bidder, strapped with a bomb around our chest and delivered to a town square where unsuspecting people are going to die for no other reason than God has left this part of the world a long, long time ago.
It’s time to eat a pb & j and do my very best to forget my troubles and woes.
My sister brought me groceries today along with a large pepperoni pizza and allergy medicine. We have not connected much the past few years. In fact we’ve never really connected all that much to begin with, but we’re still family and when we hugged and said our I love you’s I felt a sense of family that I have not felt in many years.
We must learn to cease and desist from taking ourselves for granted.
It’s 3:53 AM and I swear my inner child is somewhere amid all of this clutter I like to pretend is my life when in truth my life is free range and cannot be domesticated.
I believe it’s high time I served myself with a search warrant and discovered once and for all where all of the bodies and freeze dried tears have been buried.
I’m going to go into the kitchen in a few minutes and make myself a sandwich and pour myself another glass of Coca Cola.
My favorite Little Rascal was probably Alfalfa even though both Spanky and Mickey rank up there at the very top of my list.
I remember episodes of this show better than I remember episodes from my own childhood. Life is funny that way continually keeping you guessing and wanting more until you end up drunk, banging on someone’s door, demanding fifty bucks for a hunting dog you’d loaned out and never been compensated for.
Charles Cicirella
3/29/15
Saturday, March 28, 2015
Wordage
(For Leah Mueller, Russ Van Rooy, Juliet Cook, Joni Soule, Christina M. Brooks,
Erica Jayne Johnson, Darin Bulai, Steven Smith & Daniel Kennedy)
http://charlespoet.podomatic.com/entry/2015-03-28T13_52_18-07_00
There’s a blizzard of words in my head.
No two snowflakes are alike and it’s the same with words and people and even prayers once you put them under the microscope.
There’s a blizzard of you in my head and it’s bound to kill me dead. It’s okay though because I have always wanted to overdose on someone else’s wordage. It’s a self-fulfilling prophecy like being white and walking through the south side of Chicago at night.
We met on FB a funny place to hookup I will admit, but it seems like more and more people are doing this social networking thing which I believe has ushered in a new age of anti-social behavior.
Close knit societies are no longer all the rage and quilting bees seem to have worn out their warm, cozy welcome.
When it comes to poetry slams I’d rather slam my head against a cement wall than enter my blood poetry into a blood sport where a bunch of professional alcoholics skewer me like a roast pig.
There’s a tempest in a teapot of poetry in my head.
No two poems are alike and the same goes with a good cup of English tea once you stop being a snob and accept Afternoon tea as an inevitability.
There’s a populace of poets raging in my head. It’s alright though because I rather like all of these creative peoples ransacking my chamber of commerce brain and leaving me completely spent and whittled down in size. It’s a self-fulfilling prophecy like eating only ghosts morning, noon and night and going to bed haunted and full of someone else’s memories and regrets.
Charles Cicirella
3/28/15
http://charlespoet.podomatic.com/entry/2015-03-28T13_52_18-07_00
There’s a blizzard of words in my head.
No two snowflakes are alike and it’s the same with words and people and even prayers once you put them under the microscope.
There’s a blizzard of you in my head and it’s bound to kill me dead. It’s okay though because I have always wanted to overdose on someone else’s wordage. It’s a self-fulfilling prophecy like being white and walking through the south side of Chicago at night.
We met on FB a funny place to hookup I will admit, but it seems like more and more people are doing this social networking thing which I believe has ushered in a new age of anti-social behavior.
Close knit societies are no longer all the rage and quilting bees seem to have worn out their warm, cozy welcome.
When it comes to poetry slams I’d rather slam my head against a cement wall than enter my blood poetry into a blood sport where a bunch of professional alcoholics skewer me like a roast pig.
There’s a tempest in a teapot of poetry in my head.
No two poems are alike and the same goes with a good cup of English tea once you stop being a snob and accept Afternoon tea as an inevitability.
There’s a populace of poets raging in my head. It’s alright though because I rather like all of these creative peoples ransacking my chamber of commerce brain and leaving me completely spent and whittled down in size. It’s a self-fulfilling prophecy like eating only ghosts morning, noon and night and going to bed haunted and full of someone else’s memories and regrets.
Charles Cicirella
3/28/15
Naked Poets
http://charlespoet.podomatic.com/entry/2015-03-28T01_10_06-07_00
I like to think we’re all naked poets, but nothing could be further from the truth.
Too many supposed poets taking the easy way out and only writing about what they do not know instead of what they have experienced in this life or a past life or even a future life on another planet or deep underground.
Too many writers filtering their slaughterhouse words because they’re afraid they will be rounded up and brought to a death camp to be experimented on for all of their ineffectiveness.
It’s just my opinion of course and maybe being a clothed poet makes more sense in these days of lost irony where one’s poetic license has been traded in for a Starbucks gift card.
I’ve even been told clothed poets make better lovers which I think is total bunk because no lovemaking is worth its weight in gold fillings if your intellect is not writhing in ecstasy when your partner checks your oil and replaces your brake pads.
Naked poets have more of a tendency to go the extra mile long after the wheels have fallen off and we’re cooped up in some nondescript truck stop in some nondescript rest area where all of the nondescript people grunt like sows and are led around by a nondescript Christian God they believe they’re on a first name basis with.
Maybe I am not even a naked poet and am just another loser writing the losing end while the ghost of Nathanael West reaches out to me from beyond the grave and The Day of the Locust mocks me like all alienated and desperate works of unparalleled genius have a tendency to do.
Perhaps I’m just another Dylan wannabe who thinks they’re breaking all of the rules when no rules in fact exist and Dylan was right on target when he said “I accept chaos, I'm not sure whether it accepts me.”
Put on your windbreaker, get on your bicycle and ride around the promenade like any other legend who knows how it feels gathering no moss while standing in front of the crowd completely naked and bereft of any second or third nincompoop notions.
I wish I could take off my clothes and write this poem in the buff but my mother is in the dining room reading the newspaper and I know she wouldn’t get it.
It’s odd how poetry seems to more often than not divide us rather than bringing us together and to a more enlightened jumping-off place.
Too many writers tamping down their black powder verse for a more reserved and less confrontational tone. I believe it’s time we throw caution to the freewheelin’ wind and write about what’s going on. Pulling no punches while pushing the river and celebrating those who dare to break ranks with their counterintuitive claptrap prose while spilling their precious bodily fluids down on the killin' floor.
Charles Cicirella
3/27/15
I like to think we’re all naked poets, but nothing could be further from the truth.
Too many supposed poets taking the easy way out and only writing about what they do not know instead of what they have experienced in this life or a past life or even a future life on another planet or deep underground.
Too many writers filtering their slaughterhouse words because they’re afraid they will be rounded up and brought to a death camp to be experimented on for all of their ineffectiveness.
It’s just my opinion of course and maybe being a clothed poet makes more sense in these days of lost irony where one’s poetic license has been traded in for a Starbucks gift card.
I’ve even been told clothed poets make better lovers which I think is total bunk because no lovemaking is worth its weight in gold fillings if your intellect is not writhing in ecstasy when your partner checks your oil and replaces your brake pads.
Naked poets have more of a tendency to go the extra mile long after the wheels have fallen off and we’re cooped up in some nondescript truck stop in some nondescript rest area where all of the nondescript people grunt like sows and are led around by a nondescript Christian God they believe they’re on a first name basis with.
Maybe I am not even a naked poet and am just another loser writing the losing end while the ghost of Nathanael West reaches out to me from beyond the grave and The Day of the Locust mocks me like all alienated and desperate works of unparalleled genius have a tendency to do.
Perhaps I’m just another Dylan wannabe who thinks they’re breaking all of the rules when no rules in fact exist and Dylan was right on target when he said “I accept chaos, I'm not sure whether it accepts me.”
Put on your windbreaker, get on your bicycle and ride around the promenade like any other legend who knows how it feels gathering no moss while standing in front of the crowd completely naked and bereft of any second or third nincompoop notions.
I wish I could take off my clothes and write this poem in the buff but my mother is in the dining room reading the newspaper and I know she wouldn’t get it.
It’s odd how poetry seems to more often than not divide us rather than bringing us together and to a more enlightened jumping-off place.
Too many writers tamping down their black powder verse for a more reserved and less confrontational tone. I believe it’s time we throw caution to the freewheelin’ wind and write about what’s going on. Pulling no punches while pushing the river and celebrating those who dare to break ranks with their counterintuitive claptrap prose while spilling their precious bodily fluids down on the killin' floor.
Charles Cicirella
3/27/15
Wednesday, March 25, 2015
Penitent
http://charlespoet.podomatic.com/entry/2015-03-25T14_20_31-07_00
These words are not meant as an escape, stained glass window or glass half full.
They’re just words. Something to lean on or rely upon for the time being.
And I know I hurt you. And I know I hurt myself, but that’s oftentimes the way it is when responsibility is a fleeting notion and hanging out only leads to a bad hangover the next morning.
The priest asked if I was penitent and all I could think was how did I end up in this small box copping to shit I never had any intention of confessing to in the first place.
I wish you would talk to me instead of instantly shutting down at the first sign of an emotion you’re not comfortable making eye contact with.
Drink the coffee like its arsenic. Wear the old lace like it’s a bulletproof vest and never forget I loved you when you were broken and I will love you if and when you are fixed.
I’ve never been repentant. Maybe it’s all the guilt I’ve had to process from the very beginning when I was a pudgy, freckled, red haired momma’s boy to the present day when I’m becoming a curmudgeon of a man staring down my mortality and praying to God all these prophecies are not self-fulfilling.
We begin with Genesis and end with the Book of Revelation and in the middle there’s plenty of bloodletting and bloodlust and more excuses to spill blood than you can shake a stick at.
According to Hollywood Jesus either looks like Jeffrey Hunter or Willem Dafoe, but either way I will never accept that Judas Iscariot looked anything like Harvey Keitel.
These words are not meant as a way in or for that matter a way out. I started writing when the words appeared in my brainpan and I figured it best that I do something with them.
It was never my intention to deliver some heavy handed crusade or bring about some kind of movement with all of these consonants and vowels twisted and shaped into soft pretzels of illogic and misappropriated mustard seeds of Count Chocula faith.
I am so sick and tired of trust fund babies telling me to get my life together when it has been clear from the outset one person’s answers are another person’s problems and never shall the twain meet. I was looking for a drinking buddy not a life coach when we hooked up so either pick up the bottle and take a drink or don’t let the door hit you on the way out. I’m not sorry in the least little bit and I’ve hardly gotten started expressing to you how disappointed I am with your Teflon Stonehenge comportment. I cannot get over how you kept bogarting the joint when it was passed to you and I’ll never forgive you for actually believing I needed help. Fuck you and the white horse you rode in on. Fuck you and the smack you OD’d on. Just fuck you.
Charles Cicirella
3/25/15
These words are not meant as an escape, stained glass window or glass half full.
They’re just words. Something to lean on or rely upon for the time being.
And I know I hurt you. And I know I hurt myself, but that’s oftentimes the way it is when responsibility is a fleeting notion and hanging out only leads to a bad hangover the next morning.
The priest asked if I was penitent and all I could think was how did I end up in this small box copping to shit I never had any intention of confessing to in the first place.
I wish you would talk to me instead of instantly shutting down at the first sign of an emotion you’re not comfortable making eye contact with.
Drink the coffee like its arsenic. Wear the old lace like it’s a bulletproof vest and never forget I loved you when you were broken and I will love you if and when you are fixed.
I’ve never been repentant. Maybe it’s all the guilt I’ve had to process from the very beginning when I was a pudgy, freckled, red haired momma’s boy to the present day when I’m becoming a curmudgeon of a man staring down my mortality and praying to God all these prophecies are not self-fulfilling.
We begin with Genesis and end with the Book of Revelation and in the middle there’s plenty of bloodletting and bloodlust and more excuses to spill blood than you can shake a stick at.
According to Hollywood Jesus either looks like Jeffrey Hunter or Willem Dafoe, but either way I will never accept that Judas Iscariot looked anything like Harvey Keitel.
These words are not meant as a way in or for that matter a way out. I started writing when the words appeared in my brainpan and I figured it best that I do something with them.
It was never my intention to deliver some heavy handed crusade or bring about some kind of movement with all of these consonants and vowels twisted and shaped into soft pretzels of illogic and misappropriated mustard seeds of Count Chocula faith.
I am so sick and tired of trust fund babies telling me to get my life together when it has been clear from the outset one person’s answers are another person’s problems and never shall the twain meet. I was looking for a drinking buddy not a life coach when we hooked up so either pick up the bottle and take a drink or don’t let the door hit you on the way out. I’m not sorry in the least little bit and I’ve hardly gotten started expressing to you how disappointed I am with your Teflon Stonehenge comportment. I cannot get over how you kept bogarting the joint when it was passed to you and I’ll never forgive you for actually believing I needed help. Fuck you and the white horse you rode in on. Fuck you and the smack you OD’d on. Just fuck you.
Charles Cicirella
3/25/15
Monday, March 23, 2015
Another poem. Another poetry disc started.
These poetry coordinates don’t make any sense.
I cannot tell a lie. I desire to see you naked.
Naked of clothes, naked of thought.
Completely naked and withholding nothing.
I would like to begin this seminar with some deep knee bends.
I would like to begin by no longer pretending we believe in love and accept how helpless and hopeless our romantic status has become.
I am so inclined to stop believing in that new car smell because the last time I smelled it my father had bought a shiny new black and red Z28 as he grabbed hold of his midlife crisis like any sad man with prostate cancer grabs hold of their penis and awaits a more positive outcome.
I’m not Paul Simon. Heck I’m not even Anne Frank because the attics I hid in were in the suburbs of America and the only holocaust I ever experienced was in my Fisher-Price mind.
My brain chemistry is fractured and that is the way I prefer it. I took steroids one time for Bell’s palsy and felt honest to God even for the first time in my life, but after a while I missed the dramatic ups and downs of an artistic sensibility where everyday a new obstacle presents itself and waits to be vanquished.
“Behind the toilet is black” my mother screams from the bathroom and all I can think is what did either one of us do to deserve such similar death sentence fates?
In the year of 2015 all you have to do is take a pill to feel better and if that one pill does not work another pill will be prescribed to take along with the first pill. Doesn’t anyone else see how messed up that is? It gets me thinking that the war on drugs is still going on and it has everything to do with legal drugs prescribed by statisticians and nothing whatsoever to do with the person standing on the corner.
These poetry coordinates are just leading me around in dizzying circles.
My friend Joni posts her poetry and I once again find myself jealous of her artistic free will but understand she suffers for every brushstroke of the paintbrush, pen or finger she wields onto a canvas screen of nausea and snow blindness.
I cannot tell a lie. I desire to go bowling with you, but let’s forget about the uncomfortable and stinky rented bowling shoes and instead wear our own slippers and flannel PJs.
For the first time in our lives let’s shed all of our emotional baggage and do our very best to leave our persecution complexes at home with our rescue dogs and our Titanic inferiority complexes.
For the first time in our lives let’s act like children completely devoid of guilt and free of the sins of our parents.
Charles Cicirella
3/23/15
Friday, March 20, 2015
Cherry Cheese Hello
http://charlespoet.podomatic.com/entry/2015-03-20T11_08_01-07_00
drinking instant coffee
eating a cherry cheese danish
watching the jinx
thinking what a scumbag robert durst is
sad little rich boy
entitled freakish little man
who believes the world is his ashtray
i don’t feel sorry for you in the least little bit as i watch you being interviewed
and i try to decode your facial ticks like they were some kind of morse code
peeling off your mask in clammy clumps of plaster a paris
sounds like your father drove your mother to jump from that roof and that money covers up the sins of the father like it’s now covering up the crimes of the son and everyone does what they are told to do because money doesn’t talk it bleats and god forbid someone finally stands up and calls you on your bullshit and pulls you down from your garbage encrusted pedestal that you teeter upon like some shit eating monster that gets off on pulling one over on everyone because you seem to think money makes you untouchable in your bubble world with your bubble emotions and your cherry cheese gravelly hellos and your desperate pleas for attention or retention or whatever gets you by and ultimately gives you away in some public bathroom because even the sick and depraved can be dragged down by guilt and loneliness and remorse and whatever passes for sorrow in these days of gods and monsters and slap happy guttural screams for help
Charles Cicirella
3/20/15
drinking instant coffee
eating a cherry cheese danish
watching the jinx
thinking what a scumbag robert durst is
sad little rich boy
entitled freakish little man
who believes the world is his ashtray
i don’t feel sorry for you in the least little bit as i watch you being interviewed
and i try to decode your facial ticks like they were some kind of morse code
peeling off your mask in clammy clumps of plaster a paris
sounds like your father drove your mother to jump from that roof and that money covers up the sins of the father like it’s now covering up the crimes of the son and everyone does what they are told to do because money doesn’t talk it bleats and god forbid someone finally stands up and calls you on your bullshit and pulls you down from your garbage encrusted pedestal that you teeter upon like some shit eating monster that gets off on pulling one over on everyone because you seem to think money makes you untouchable in your bubble world with your bubble emotions and your cherry cheese gravelly hellos and your desperate pleas for attention or retention or whatever gets you by and ultimately gives you away in some public bathroom because even the sick and depraved can be dragged down by guilt and loneliness and remorse and whatever passes for sorrow in these days of gods and monsters and slap happy guttural screams for help
Charles Cicirella
3/20/15
Thursday, March 19, 2015
God Squad Squawk Box
http://charlespoet.podomatic.com/entry/2015-03-18T22_43_03-07_00
I am here
Here I am
Come and get me
Job was not a victim
Job didn’t have it coming to him
Job was just in the wrong place at the wrong time
I am trying my best to be open to inspiration
I am praying I don’t just become more collateral damage
I am well aware that resisting change is completely futile
Moses was not an Amway Distributor
Moses held no stock in pyramid schemes
Moses like Edward Scissorhands was a gentle spirit with a kind heart
I am tired of being by myself
Loneliness has got me on the run
I wish someone would ask me to dance
John the Baptist had it going on
John the Baptist was the first rebel without a cause
John the Baptist made it look easy because he did not require any backup band when crying in the wilderness
Charles Cicirella
3/18/15
I am here
Here I am
Come and get me
Job was not a victim
Job didn’t have it coming to him
Job was just in the wrong place at the wrong time
I am trying my best to be open to inspiration
I am praying I don’t just become more collateral damage
I am well aware that resisting change is completely futile
Moses was not an Amway Distributor
Moses held no stock in pyramid schemes
Moses like Edward Scissorhands was a gentle spirit with a kind heart
I am tired of being by myself
Loneliness has got me on the run
I wish someone would ask me to dance
John the Baptist had it going on
John the Baptist was the first rebel without a cause
John the Baptist made it look easy because he did not require any backup band when crying in the wilderness
Charles Cicirella
3/18/15
Sunday, March 15, 2015
Another Poem for Bob Dylan #5
http://charlespoet.podomatic.com/entry/2015-03-15T14_02_39-07_00
Singing “Dirge”
He’s a Jewish Cantor
He’s everything and nothing encapsulated into nothing and everything
“Like a slave in orbit”
Like a meteor from space
Superman was Clark Kent’s worst nightmare
Thinking about eating a couple of hotdogs with sauerkraut and French’s Yellow Mustard
It’s a beginning
It’s Exodus without the cries in the wilderness or the unleavened bread
My Passover could beat up your Easter
I know it’s not a contest but if it were my unforgiving God would beat the tar out of your turn the other cheek Son of Man
Let’s start with heavy petting and if that doesn’t get us anywhere then you can have your way with me once the roofie kicks in and Fat Albert promises to leave the room
There is just something about the way he sings that transports me to another level of consciousness
I love how he leaves no rolling stone unturned while inventing a new language that beats the crap out of however we used to communicate before he appeared on the scene like a vengeful spirit or circus oddity
He makes being a freak cool as he takes every one of us hostage with his Dog Day Afternoon declarations of independence and inconsolable heartache
Emoting “Dirge”
He’s a Christian Minstrel
He’s breaking bad while making it perfectly clear there never was anything to return home to
Charles Cicirella
3/15/15
Singing “Dirge”
He’s a Jewish Cantor
He’s everything and nothing encapsulated into nothing and everything
“Like a slave in orbit”
Like a meteor from space
Superman was Clark Kent’s worst nightmare
Thinking about eating a couple of hotdogs with sauerkraut and French’s Yellow Mustard
It’s a beginning
It’s Exodus without the cries in the wilderness or the unleavened bread
My Passover could beat up your Easter
I know it’s not a contest but if it were my unforgiving God would beat the tar out of your turn the other cheek Son of Man
Let’s start with heavy petting and if that doesn’t get us anywhere then you can have your way with me once the roofie kicks in and Fat Albert promises to leave the room
There is just something about the way he sings that transports me to another level of consciousness
I love how he leaves no rolling stone unturned while inventing a new language that beats the crap out of however we used to communicate before he appeared on the scene like a vengeful spirit or circus oddity
He makes being a freak cool as he takes every one of us hostage with his Dog Day Afternoon declarations of independence and inconsolable heartache
Emoting “Dirge”
He’s a Christian Minstrel
He’s breaking bad while making it perfectly clear there never was anything to return home to
Charles Cicirella
3/15/15
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