I don’t think it was lost on any one of us that we had turned onto a street with no outlet.
We’re men and we’re musicians and writers and artists and associate professors and librarians and some or none of the above.
And there were deer and barely legal women, depending on who you ask, and there was an overwhelming sense of finality to the goings-on that kept us walking and talking and thankfully kept us out of the deep, dark recesses of his bruised brain.
And I’m not a chain smoker and I’m not a chain anything, but if you would have ever bet me that Jim Pauley would one day buy a gun I would have lost that bet because I’m not a very good gambler and my poker face is right off of a Bozo the Clown most wanted poster.
And Gallagher cracked Wise and Wise cracked Gallagher and I stood by the side of the road watching the deer and the white billowing clouds in the blue hibernating sky and I didn’t want to turn around and I didn’t want to get in the car and I didn’t want to head home because I knew then I would have to accept he was never going to be seen or heard from again. And Wise squeezed my shoulders and we talked about ping pong or Donkey Kong and it didn’t even matter as long as we had gotten this far on our own two legs with a little help from our friends and we’re all going to die, but why did it have to be now and why did it have to be him and I know even Confucius would be stumped by these questions and I know I won’t like the answers because they’re steeped in black water that will never properly boil and a tea bag that just sits there giving you the most dispassionate look of utter resolve and unyielding determination.
I’m standing in a sculpture garden with sculptures all around. Some appear to possess great wisdom while others seem to not have a clue what’s going on. I cannot move. My legs feel like molten lead. You came up behind me and scared me half to death. You chuckled like you always did when you caught me off guard. And I just drank you in because it seemed like eons since the last time we talked and walked side by side down the long Hemingway Highway. You asked if I needed to sit down and catch my breath but I didn’t hear you because I had since turned into a sculpture and a couple of cardinals had built some fine nests in my sculpted ears. I’ll never forget when you breathed the breath of life into my weary and untethered bones and I will never be able to quite forgive you for leaving without saying one last prosaic and protracted goodbye.
Charles Cicirella
7/20/15
Sunday, August 02, 2015
"Girl from the North Country"
Some connections are made in the stars before they ever touch down on Earth.
Some connections are a “Series of Dreams” and will outlast truth and a “Simple Twist of Fate” because that’s how God intends it to be and if you don’t believe, “Don’t Think Twice, It’s All Right” because omnipotence works in mysterious ways and star crossed lovers will always be star crossed just ask Vincent or Marilyn or Kurt Cobain if you don’t trust me.
I remember so much and I remember so little, but I definitely remember that night at Miggs when I was blasting Bob Dylan as I cleared the tables out front and you walked by. Everything stopped and I knew something was happening here even if I still don’t know what it is. The fabric of the universe was torn just a little bit apart as Bob offered communion and we accepted the round wafer as the music and the mayhem and his encouraging words washed over us and left us more whole than we had been before the song started.
I need to get these words down while I still can because I must try and reach you no matter how difficult that may prove to be. I have no idea what you’re feeling and I don’t envy what it is you’re facing. I know that you lost your best friend and that just stops me in my tracks because we should never lose our best friends no matter the circumstances. I am trying my best to write this poem because that’s what I do and I know you’re staring into the abyss and I know if it looks like a duck, swims like a duck, and quacks like a duck, then it probably is a duck, but with Jim that was never the case nor was it ever in fact true.
Jim was a troubadour of the highest degree. He was a wordsmith and a comedian and a sportscaster, but never an armchair quarterback. He brandished a letter opener instead of a sword and knew just when to twist the knife and when to pull back and allow the silences to make his points for him. He was a leading man and a character actor all rolled into one Norman Rockwell-Jackson Pollock painting. He made everyone around him feel smarter and want to be a better person and he left his mark but never bruised the orange or left teeth marks in inopportune places. He took clever to a whole other level, but was never a smart aleck and understood what it meant to leave well enough alone and to go your own way before you’ve either worn out your welcome or have too loudly blown your own horn. And I believe he knew more about love than all the songs he relished because he was full of heart and understood better than most what Dylan meant when he wrote and sang “How does it feel?”
Charles Cicirella
7/19/15
Some connections are a “Series of Dreams” and will outlast truth and a “Simple Twist of Fate” because that’s how God intends it to be and if you don’t believe, “Don’t Think Twice, It’s All Right” because omnipotence works in mysterious ways and star crossed lovers will always be star crossed just ask Vincent or Marilyn or Kurt Cobain if you don’t trust me.
I remember so much and I remember so little, but I definitely remember that night at Miggs when I was blasting Bob Dylan as I cleared the tables out front and you walked by. Everything stopped and I knew something was happening here even if I still don’t know what it is. The fabric of the universe was torn just a little bit apart as Bob offered communion and we accepted the round wafer as the music and the mayhem and his encouraging words washed over us and left us more whole than we had been before the song started.
I need to get these words down while I still can because I must try and reach you no matter how difficult that may prove to be. I have no idea what you’re feeling and I don’t envy what it is you’re facing. I know that you lost your best friend and that just stops me in my tracks because we should never lose our best friends no matter the circumstances. I am trying my best to write this poem because that’s what I do and I know you’re staring into the abyss and I know if it looks like a duck, swims like a duck, and quacks like a duck, then it probably is a duck, but with Jim that was never the case nor was it ever in fact true.
Jim was a troubadour of the highest degree. He was a wordsmith and a comedian and a sportscaster, but never an armchair quarterback. He brandished a letter opener instead of a sword and knew just when to twist the knife and when to pull back and allow the silences to make his points for him. He was a leading man and a character actor all rolled into one Norman Rockwell-Jackson Pollock painting. He made everyone around him feel smarter and want to be a better person and he left his mark but never bruised the orange or left teeth marks in inopportune places. He took clever to a whole other level, but was never a smart aleck and understood what it meant to leave well enough alone and to go your own way before you’ve either worn out your welcome or have too loudly blown your own horn. And I believe he knew more about love than all the songs he relished because he was full of heart and understood better than most what Dylan meant when he wrote and sang “How does it feel?”
Charles Cicirella
7/19/15
In the Garden with Jim Pauley
He had this irresistible wit that would have you laughing in the aisles while also waking you up to some painful truth.
I rarely look for another person’s acceptance and yet when it came to Jim I never wanted to disappoint him or feel like I had in some way let him down.
I’ve never been interested in sports, but for him I would do my very best to try and understand what was going on because it was something he was passionate about, and I wanted to share some of that passion with him.
Music was the bond we really had in common, and of course Bob Dylan was where he and I could meet and lose ourselves in hours of listening, savoring and getting it.
The first time I heard "Love And Theft" was with him and Jessica. I had been fortunate enough to receive an advanced copy, and there was no one I wanted to experience it with more.
I’ll never forget going into his bathroom and seeing the image of James Dean in jeans turned with his back to the camera and wondering what that was all about, but because it was in Jim’s bathroom, I went away thinking how cool that is.
I cannot believe that he is gone and that I am writing this poem.
It’s like a bad dream that I’ll never wake up from because who else would have listened to Tom Waits’ Mule Variations, commenting on how it’s an American classic and meaning it with such reverence and an understated regal charm.
I would say I’m at a loss for words, but I’ve said that before and no one would believe me anyhow, especially Jim. He always knew when I was bending the truth to cover the spread or when I had finally run out of gas and pulled over to the side of the road in order to catch my breath and find out what the score was.
You never judged me, and I am not going to sit in judgment of you now. First because it’s not my place and second because I had no clue about the hellhounds that were hot on your trail as the blues fell down like rain.
I just thank God we had those many nights at JR Miggs when nothing mattered other than Jeopardy and the next CD we listened to.
I will never forget hanging out with you and Rob afterhours and how for the first time in my life feeling like one of the guys as we sat around just shooting the breeze and not worrying about what tomorrow may bring.
I love you my friend and pray you’ve found some well-earned and well-deserved peace.
Charles Cicirella
7/16/15
I rarely look for another person’s acceptance and yet when it came to Jim I never wanted to disappoint him or feel like I had in some way let him down.
I’ve never been interested in sports, but for him I would do my very best to try and understand what was going on because it was something he was passionate about, and I wanted to share some of that passion with him.
Music was the bond we really had in common, and of course Bob Dylan was where he and I could meet and lose ourselves in hours of listening, savoring and getting it.
The first time I heard "Love And Theft" was with him and Jessica. I had been fortunate enough to receive an advanced copy, and there was no one I wanted to experience it with more.
I’ll never forget going into his bathroom and seeing the image of James Dean in jeans turned with his back to the camera and wondering what that was all about, but because it was in Jim’s bathroom, I went away thinking how cool that is.
I cannot believe that he is gone and that I am writing this poem.
It’s like a bad dream that I’ll never wake up from because who else would have listened to Tom Waits’ Mule Variations, commenting on how it’s an American classic and meaning it with such reverence and an understated regal charm.
I would say I’m at a loss for words, but I’ve said that before and no one would believe me anyhow, especially Jim. He always knew when I was bending the truth to cover the spread or when I had finally run out of gas and pulled over to the side of the road in order to catch my breath and find out what the score was.
You never judged me, and I am not going to sit in judgment of you now. First because it’s not my place and second because I had no clue about the hellhounds that were hot on your trail as the blues fell down like rain.
I just thank God we had those many nights at JR Miggs when nothing mattered other than Jeopardy and the next CD we listened to.
I will never forget hanging out with you and Rob afterhours and how for the first time in my life feeling like one of the guys as we sat around just shooting the breeze and not worrying about what tomorrow may bring.
I love you my friend and pray you’ve found some well-earned and well-deserved peace.
Charles Cicirella
7/16/15
Ghosts
I’ve written this poem before, but I thought I’d give it another go.
It’s not because the first one wasn’t any good, but when you hit upon something I figure why not keep hitting it until its dead.
Plus I don’t feel like writing another love poem right now and having someone comment that I need to get a girlfriend.
Why are people afraid of honesty?
Why are people made so uncomfortable from anything that touches them or awakens something inside that maybe they have not experienced in this lifetime?
Ghosts are people to and I think it’s high time we gave them the right to vote seeing how the Supreme Court has ruled that corporations are people and Republicans are doing their darndest to make it as difficult as possible for black people to exercise their right to vote.
I know some people will not be comfortable with that last line and I really could care less because this is my poem and I’ll make anybody uncomfortable that I choose to.
I once fell in love with a ghost. She was one heck of a looker but when it came to commitment she was terrible at sticking around and believed that she had the right to haunt anybody she pleased at any time.
We must come together before it’s too late and strike down all this hatred and ignorance and I am not just talking about taking down a flag, but really digging down into the trenches and asking ourselves the really tough questions like why we despise people that don’t look like us or pray like us or love like us.
I’ve written this poem at least a dozen times before and I’ll probably write it a thousand more and I’ll still not get it right because right and might, light or dark are so beside the point.
I am through with all of these lightweight people who haven’t got a clue what a blessing it is to be here among the thistles and the thorns.
It’s not like I am giving up hope or that I ever believed that hope equates fear, but at some point we all must give up the ghost and few of us will be able to control when we turn out the lights and never wake up again.
Charles Cicirella
7/15/15
It’s not because the first one wasn’t any good, but when you hit upon something I figure why not keep hitting it until its dead.
Plus I don’t feel like writing another love poem right now and having someone comment that I need to get a girlfriend.
Why are people afraid of honesty?
Why are people made so uncomfortable from anything that touches them or awakens something inside that maybe they have not experienced in this lifetime?
Ghosts are people to and I think it’s high time we gave them the right to vote seeing how the Supreme Court has ruled that corporations are people and Republicans are doing their darndest to make it as difficult as possible for black people to exercise their right to vote.
I know some people will not be comfortable with that last line and I really could care less because this is my poem and I’ll make anybody uncomfortable that I choose to.
I once fell in love with a ghost. She was one heck of a looker but when it came to commitment she was terrible at sticking around and believed that she had the right to haunt anybody she pleased at any time.
We must come together before it’s too late and strike down all this hatred and ignorance and I am not just talking about taking down a flag, but really digging down into the trenches and asking ourselves the really tough questions like why we despise people that don’t look like us or pray like us or love like us.
I’ve written this poem at least a dozen times before and I’ll probably write it a thousand more and I’ll still not get it right because right and might, light or dark are so beside the point.
I am through with all of these lightweight people who haven’t got a clue what a blessing it is to be here among the thistles and the thorns.
It’s not like I am giving up hope or that I ever believed that hope equates fear, but at some point we all must give up the ghost and few of us will be able to control when we turn out the lights and never wake up again.
Charles Cicirella
7/15/15
What if greatness eludes me?
http://charlespoet.podomatic.com/entry/2015-07-13T13_53_35-07_00
I know I possess greatness but what if it’s in my other pants?
The words are coming so fast what if I don’t get them all down or I put them down in the wrong order?
There's something happening here what it is ain't exactly clear and you don’t have to point out to me that that line is not original because I already know and I don’t care.
I fear no repercussions except for the ghosts of Christmas past, present and future.
I have no expectations except for the low expectations I wake up next to each and every afternoon.
Last couple of days I have been twitchy and I am not even sure why that is. Maybe it’s because I recently stopped smoking marijuana after smoking it every day for two or three month’s straight. Or maybe the plaque build-up in my brain is starting to cause more than just memory lapses as I become more and more aware of how important it is to get my thoughts down before thinking is no longer possible and drooling is the only task I’m capable of.
I know about destiny and fate and that luck as perverse as it may sound also plays its part before it’s too late.
I’ve also been told that hustling is important if you ever want to make it out of the gate.
What if greatness eludes me simply because I am too afraid to go without and that means leaving Cleveland, Ohio and going it completely alone with no safety net or close relations or friends to save me from the bitter taste of defeat and anonymity?
Charles Cicirella
7/13/15
I know I possess greatness but what if it’s in my other pants?
The words are coming so fast what if I don’t get them all down or I put them down in the wrong order?
There's something happening here what it is ain't exactly clear and you don’t have to point out to me that that line is not original because I already know and I don’t care.
I fear no repercussions except for the ghosts of Christmas past, present and future.
I have no expectations except for the low expectations I wake up next to each and every afternoon.
Last couple of days I have been twitchy and I am not even sure why that is. Maybe it’s because I recently stopped smoking marijuana after smoking it every day for two or three month’s straight. Or maybe the plaque build-up in my brain is starting to cause more than just memory lapses as I become more and more aware of how important it is to get my thoughts down before thinking is no longer possible and drooling is the only task I’m capable of.
I know about destiny and fate and that luck as perverse as it may sound also plays its part before it’s too late.
I’ve also been told that hustling is important if you ever want to make it out of the gate.
What if greatness eludes me simply because I am too afraid to go without and that means leaving Cleveland, Ohio and going it completely alone with no safety net or close relations or friends to save me from the bitter taste of defeat and anonymity?
Charles Cicirella
7/13/15
Weather Report
Words fall out
Down
All around
Words shoeless
Crush snow
Crash stained glass
Child
Adult
Bones
Child
Adult
Ashes
Words drip
Drop
Ricochet
Words convey
Converge
Convert
Grave
Borderless
Open horizons
Grave
Fluctuating
Central cocoon
Charles Cicirella
7/13/15
Down
All around
Words shoeless
Crush snow
Crash stained glass
Child
Adult
Bones
Child
Adult
Ashes
Words drip
Drop
Ricochet
Words convey
Converge
Convert
Grave
Borderless
Open horizons
Grave
Fluctuating
Central cocoon
Charles Cicirella
7/13/15
Possession is nine-tenths of the law.
You possess the words. They don’t possess you.
You possess something inexcusably tangible with every breath inhaled and exhaled.
Your writing didn’t just sneak up on me. No your writing gave me a swift kick in the butt and continues to do just that as I read it and consume it and devour it like carrion and tubers.
The talent does not possess you. You possess the talent.
The talent does not reap the rewards you do.
And if you’re doing it just right the rewards will be forgotten rather quickly because there are more poems to be written and fights against windmills to be waged.
You’re a super nova.
And you are the glory.
And I’m an asshole for questioning you in the first, second and third place.
You possess the power. The power does not possess you.
You possess a knockout punch and do it every time you press down the keys with your wiggly digits, knuckles and thumbs.
Your writing has sparked a revolution in our heads. It’s your poetic imagery that keeps us guessing and coming back for me. It’s the way you possess ghosts that scares every one of us to death because we know you’re onto something and are going to leave us in the Louisiana dust before it’s too late and the jury comes back with a non-guilty verdict.
Charles Cicirella
7/13/15
You possess something inexcusably tangible with every breath inhaled and exhaled.
Your writing didn’t just sneak up on me. No your writing gave me a swift kick in the butt and continues to do just that as I read it and consume it and devour it like carrion and tubers.
The talent does not possess you. You possess the talent.
The talent does not reap the rewards you do.
And if you’re doing it just right the rewards will be forgotten rather quickly because there are more poems to be written and fights against windmills to be waged.
You’re a super nova.
And you are the glory.
And I’m an asshole for questioning you in the first, second and third place.
You possess the power. The power does not possess you.
You possess a knockout punch and do it every time you press down the keys with your wiggly digits, knuckles and thumbs.
Your writing has sparked a revolution in our heads. It’s your poetic imagery that keeps us guessing and coming back for me. It’s the way you possess ghosts that scares every one of us to death because we know you’re onto something and are going to leave us in the Louisiana dust before it’s too late and the jury comes back with a non-guilty verdict.
Charles Cicirella
7/13/15
Skittles
http://charlespoet.podomatic.com/entry/2015-07-15T15_10_29-07_00
Laying down
Listening to the thunder
Thinking of you covering me with umbrella kisses
Standing up
Hanging onto your every whim and Whac-A-Mole diversionary tactic
Discerning just how real you are amid all the Mr. Fantasy politicking
We begin as milkshakes and if we’re lucky end up as root beer floats
I am jobless, nearly homeless and when it comes to self-preservation haven’t a clue how to keep myself from ending up living in a van down by the river
I desire to stick my circus straw in your funhouse of mirrors and rodeo mystique
I will never forgive Skittles for replacing lime with green apple
Skittles was never my go to candy and yet still on occasion I enjoy them and find myself missing lime like I miss consistency over profit margin
I will never forgive God for sacrificing his only son
Charles Cicirella
7/14/15
Laying down
Listening to the thunder
Thinking of you covering me with umbrella kisses
Standing up
Hanging onto your every whim and Whac-A-Mole diversionary tactic
Discerning just how real you are amid all the Mr. Fantasy politicking
We begin as milkshakes and if we’re lucky end up as root beer floats
I am jobless, nearly homeless and when it comes to self-preservation haven’t a clue how to keep myself from ending up living in a van down by the river
I desire to stick my circus straw in your funhouse of mirrors and rodeo mystique
I will never forgive Skittles for replacing lime with green apple
Skittles was never my go to candy and yet still on occasion I enjoy them and find myself missing lime like I miss consistency over profit margin
I will never forgive God for sacrificing his only son
Charles Cicirella
7/14/15
Saturday, July 11, 2015
Animal Crackers
http://charlespoet.podomatic.com/entry/2015-07-11T12_12_13-07_00
I know you’re hungry. I’m hungry too.
The way you get my words.
The way you make music from words and words into crystal latticed semiconductors of hypnotic flow is a sight to behold. And I refuse to surrender to your resolve because my own resolve is plenty good enough and has gotten me this far.
These are not love letters. I’m not even semi-hard as I type this.
These are not Letters to Milena so don’t go getting your panties all in a bunch.
I need to experience Sabbath with you one on one. Like a live television broadcast there will be commercial breaks and we’ll get to know one another in the green room.
When I mentioned that writing was for me like taking down dictation straight from my brainstem and you responded it was the same for you, that’s when I started to believe you were a believer just like me.
Streams of consciousness shoot through our battle fatigues and we mustn’t worry about the cost we’ll ultimately pay because our deliverance has always been contingent on absolute and abject otherness and the belief that free will is only half of the picture.
Our pasts are past due and the reason we’re so comfortable with these futuristic cave drawings is because we were present when they first came into bloody being. Just like when a baby cuts their first tooth and a little whiskey helps kill the pain.
Grouch Marx is our benefactor. Harpo Marx his silent partner in the lost art of slapstick slaughter.
What happens when all of our Christ figurines have come down with a case of the flu? What happens if we don’t figure some way to withstand our own desperate pleas?
I need for us to meet with no distractions, including all of that needless expediency that gets us to the good part that much faster and yet proves to be just more buzzkill.
I like my animal crackers straight from the zoo.
I like my honey straight from the honeybee.
I like my poetry straight from the spicket. At first I thought you were a mirage then it became all too apparent that you are flesh, blood and words and burn hotter than rocket fuel.
Charles Cicirella
7/8/2015
I know you’re hungry. I’m hungry too.
The way you get my words.
The way you make music from words and words into crystal latticed semiconductors of hypnotic flow is a sight to behold. And I refuse to surrender to your resolve because my own resolve is plenty good enough and has gotten me this far.
These are not love letters. I’m not even semi-hard as I type this.
These are not Letters to Milena so don’t go getting your panties all in a bunch.
I need to experience Sabbath with you one on one. Like a live television broadcast there will be commercial breaks and we’ll get to know one another in the green room.
When I mentioned that writing was for me like taking down dictation straight from my brainstem and you responded it was the same for you, that’s when I started to believe you were a believer just like me.
Streams of consciousness shoot through our battle fatigues and we mustn’t worry about the cost we’ll ultimately pay because our deliverance has always been contingent on absolute and abject otherness and the belief that free will is only half of the picture.
Our pasts are past due and the reason we’re so comfortable with these futuristic cave drawings is because we were present when they first came into bloody being. Just like when a baby cuts their first tooth and a little whiskey helps kill the pain.
Grouch Marx is our benefactor. Harpo Marx his silent partner in the lost art of slapstick slaughter.
What happens when all of our Christ figurines have come down with a case of the flu? What happens if we don’t figure some way to withstand our own desperate pleas?
I need for us to meet with no distractions, including all of that needless expediency that gets us to the good part that much faster and yet proves to be just more buzzkill.
I like my animal crackers straight from the zoo.
I like my honey straight from the honeybee.
I like my poetry straight from the spicket. At first I thought you were a mirage then it became all too apparent that you are flesh, blood and words and burn hotter than rocket fuel.
Charles Cicirella
7/8/2015
Monday, July 06, 2015
Thin Ice
http://charlespoet.podomatic.com/entry/2015-07-05T21_02_23-07_00
Just hit the pipe.
It’s just some pot.
Nothing heavy like heroin, cocaine or alcohol.
Haven’t written in a few days, but the writing is an old friend so odds are it will forgive me.
I know we’re on thin ice ever since I confessed to feeling love and you’re still trying to keep it casual in your head even though the rest of your body is warm for my form.
There’s no denying I’m an instigator even when I’m saying nothing, eyes closed, hands unclenched.
They say Bernie Sanders is a socialist like that’s a mark against him.
Conservative media, liberal media they’re all eating and drinking from the same trough. The only one who is telling the truth other than Bernie is Elizabeth Warren, but she’s not running and Bernie doesn’t have a chance in hell of even winning the nomination.
This poem is all over the map because I cannot afford GPS. In fact I still have a flip phone and it’s plenty smart enough for me.
Going to reload the pipe.
Then I am going to imagine you naked and spewing poetry and other juices from your most trusted of orifices.
We’re chatting on FB and I just asked you if you were shaved. I know you will either say no comment or stonewall me as you have a habit of doing. Trust me I understand how awful it is wrestling with guilt. I also know we’re skating on thin ice and that global warming should be scaring us into real action.
Charles Cicirella
7/2/2016
Just hit the pipe.
It’s just some pot.
Nothing heavy like heroin, cocaine or alcohol.
Haven’t written in a few days, but the writing is an old friend so odds are it will forgive me.
I know we’re on thin ice ever since I confessed to feeling love and you’re still trying to keep it casual in your head even though the rest of your body is warm for my form.
There’s no denying I’m an instigator even when I’m saying nothing, eyes closed, hands unclenched.
They say Bernie Sanders is a socialist like that’s a mark against him.
Conservative media, liberal media they’re all eating and drinking from the same trough. The only one who is telling the truth other than Bernie is Elizabeth Warren, but she’s not running and Bernie doesn’t have a chance in hell of even winning the nomination.
This poem is all over the map because I cannot afford GPS. In fact I still have a flip phone and it’s plenty smart enough for me.
Going to reload the pipe.
Then I am going to imagine you naked and spewing poetry and other juices from your most trusted of orifices.
We’re chatting on FB and I just asked you if you were shaved. I know you will either say no comment or stonewall me as you have a habit of doing. Trust me I understand how awful it is wrestling with guilt. I also know we’re skating on thin ice and that global warming should be scaring us into real action.
Charles Cicirella
7/2/2016
Sunday, July 05, 2015
This struggle seems almost harder.
http://charlespoet.podomatic.com/entry/2015-07-05T13_19_39-07_00
The Madonna hears her son’s cries.
To live the way we choose.
To die the way we choose.
A privilege yes, but sadly not a right.
Preston is the real athlete.
The rest of us are bystanders if we’re lucky.
I don’t want to hear what part God’s supposedly playing.
I’m not sure what I believe and if pressed on the matter I may just acquiesce.
The struggle is definitely harder.
Even the aftermath fails in stature.
Serving a life sentence and all he did was forget to put his seatbelt back on.
The Madonna tends to her son’s wounded chakras.
Preston is the miracle.
There are no saints or sinners just survivors and evil do-gooders.
I’m not interested in any explanation Our Father may wish to proffer.
I’m starting to believe The Big Bang happened the second God’s back was turned.
Charles Cicirella
7/5/15
The Madonna hears her son’s cries.
To live the way we choose.
To die the way we choose.
A privilege yes, but sadly not a right.
Preston is the real athlete.
The rest of us are bystanders if we’re lucky.
I don’t want to hear what part God’s supposedly playing.
I’m not sure what I believe and if pressed on the matter I may just acquiesce.
The struggle is definitely harder.
Even the aftermath fails in stature.
Serving a life sentence and all he did was forget to put his seatbelt back on.
The Madonna tends to her son’s wounded chakras.
Preston is the miracle.
There are no saints or sinners just survivors and evil do-gooders.
I’m not interested in any explanation Our Father may wish to proffer.
I’m starting to believe The Big Bang happened the second God’s back was turned.
Charles Cicirella
7/5/15
Saturday, July 04, 2015
Madonna and Child, Eternal Spring and Eve
If I tell you I love you it’s because I can hardly contain myself. If I tell you I want you it’s because the words formed on my lips and I don’t know what else to do with them. If I write poems for you it’s because you inspire me like no other and I cannot shake your brain power or your sculpted sexuality. My middle name is sweet chaos so please don’t go worrying yourself over the many speedbumps we’re sure to encounter. You are the Logan Sapphire cut from a crystal mined in Sri Lanka. And I am a rare 'pigeon-blood' ruby mined from fairy tale and unguarded promises. Poetry is our bond and our cornerstone, my love.
Charles Cicirella
7/3/15
Charles Cicirella
7/3/15
Friday, July 03, 2015
Poetry is My Protection
http://charlespoet.podomatic.com/entry/2015-07-03T13_11_24-07_00
Her words not mine.
She reminded me that I know how to write in both blood and stardust.
My words not hers.
I’m a pushy son of a bitch.
I’m hard to love.
I don’t trust love. Not one bit.
You appeared out of the clear blue sky.
I find myself smiling more than I’ve ever smiled before.
Poetry is how and where I lower my guard.
Poetry is my protection. Her words not mine.
You bring me around to other ways of thinking and spinning. My words not hers.
The mold was broken when I was born. “On the day that you were born the angels got together and decided to create a dream come true.”*
Charles Cicirella
6/27/15
* "(They Long to Be) Close to You" is a popular song written by Burt Bacharach and Hal David.
Her words not mine.
She reminded me that I know how to write in both blood and stardust.
My words not hers.
I’m a pushy son of a bitch.
I’m hard to love.
I don’t trust love. Not one bit.
You appeared out of the clear blue sky.
I find myself smiling more than I’ve ever smiled before.
Poetry is how and where I lower my guard.
Poetry is my protection. Her words not mine.
You bring me around to other ways of thinking and spinning. My words not hers.
The mold was broken when I was born. “On the day that you were born the angels got together and decided to create a dream come true.”*
Charles Cicirella
6/27/15
* "(They Long to Be) Close to You" is a popular song written by Burt Bacharach and Hal David.
Sunday, June 28, 2015
None of the Pieces Seem to Fit
(For Darin Bulai)
http://charlespoet.podomatic.com/entry/2015-06-28T20_12_42-07_00
I don’t know how to make sense of anything.
Every day things slip away.
I don’t even know what those things are and why I cared about them in the first place.
I reach out and it doesn’t do much good.
I come off angry, broken and resentful of everyone and everything.
Sometimes I wish I still drove so I could drive a car through the car wash.
I remember coming through the other side and everything being clean and feeling new.
I wonder if when we die if it will feel like that when we come through the other side. Like all of the grime, guilt and rage has been washed away and we’re transformed with a fresh sense of purpose.
Sometimes I wish I could drive off the edge of the world. Never looking back at all of the damage I have caused and all of the love I never could quite get a handle on.
I don’t know how to make sense of any of it. Including the fucking trees and all of the shadowy indifference we settle for like spinach on our plate to go along with the crow.
Every night things are just out of reach.
I don’t even know if it matters anymore and why I spend any time at all wishing we were closer and had had some discussions making us better and more tolerant people.
I do not see the sense in buying a firearm and hunting animals for sport.
I cannot seem to get any of these pieces to fit. As poets go I’m a so-so handyman and a terrific pain in the ass.
Charles Cicirella
6/28/15
http://charlespoet.podomatic.com/entry/2015-06-28T20_12_42-07_00
I don’t know how to make sense of anything.
Every day things slip away.
I don’t even know what those things are and why I cared about them in the first place.
I reach out and it doesn’t do much good.
I come off angry, broken and resentful of everyone and everything.
Sometimes I wish I still drove so I could drive a car through the car wash.
I remember coming through the other side and everything being clean and feeling new.
I wonder if when we die if it will feel like that when we come through the other side. Like all of the grime, guilt and rage has been washed away and we’re transformed with a fresh sense of purpose.
Sometimes I wish I could drive off the edge of the world. Never looking back at all of the damage I have caused and all of the love I never could quite get a handle on.
I don’t know how to make sense of any of it. Including the fucking trees and all of the shadowy indifference we settle for like spinach on our plate to go along with the crow.
Every night things are just out of reach.
I don’t even know if it matters anymore and why I spend any time at all wishing we were closer and had had some discussions making us better and more tolerant people.
I do not see the sense in buying a firearm and hunting animals for sport.
I cannot seem to get any of these pieces to fit. As poets go I’m a so-so handyman and a terrific pain in the ass.
Charles Cicirella
6/28/15
When will the poetry come?
http://charlespoet.podomatic.com/entry/2015-06-27T23_11_53-07_00
Part 1.
Unlike flash paper.
We are not writing illusion.
Your poetic imagery is universal.
A shiver of sharks.
They smell blood.
You are impervious to their lasting impressions.
We began as strangers.
Poetry helped us to become familiar.
Pinup girl wordsmith.
I am a jackal.
And I still give myself too much credit.
My zeppelin is ego-driven.
Part 2.
Like the National Debt.
I’m over my head.
Your poetic countenance is irresistible.
A splatter of paint.
The painter bleeds.
I am indisposed to antique antiquities.
Start your engines.
Poetry gushes from your every pore.
Somethings are worth waiting for.
Part 3.
Like Cleopatra.
You are turning heads.
Your horse drawn carriage will lift off at any moment.
Charles Cicirella
6/28/15
Part 1.
Unlike flash paper.
We are not writing illusion.
Your poetic imagery is universal.
A shiver of sharks.
They smell blood.
You are impervious to their lasting impressions.
We began as strangers.
Poetry helped us to become familiar.
Pinup girl wordsmith.
I am a jackal.
And I still give myself too much credit.
My zeppelin is ego-driven.
Part 2.
Like the National Debt.
I’m over my head.
Your poetic countenance is irresistible.
A splatter of paint.
The painter bleeds.
I am indisposed to antique antiquities.
Start your engines.
Poetry gushes from your every pore.
Somethings are worth waiting for.
Part 3.
Like Cleopatra.
You are turning heads.
Your horse drawn carriage will lift off at any moment.
Charles Cicirella
6/28/15
Friday, June 26, 2015
You make me blush and you'd better use haiku kisses in a poem.
I hit the pipe.
I slapped your ass.
I covered you with haiku kisses.
We begin as absolute beginners.
No sin to slow us down.
Nothing but wide open spaces and you in a fever dream furiously scribbling down your poetic litanies celebrating Christ the Redeemer. As I wrestle with my martyr complexes and drown myself in fits of spastic self-indulgent joy.
We must swallow our feelings because we’re not free. We are also not victims. We are still here. We’ve always existed. We survive as you decay.
Honey trickles from your almond sockets and I have never been this rock hard before.
I wrapped the pipe in aluminum foil before stashing away.
I slipped out of bed so I could watch you sleep as a solitary being.
There is nothing sexier than you embarking on your next Silk Road voyage.
You covered me with exclamation points and each one hit its mark.
Charles Cicirella
6/26/15
I slapped your ass.
I covered you with haiku kisses.
We begin as absolute beginners.
No sin to slow us down.
Nothing but wide open spaces and you in a fever dream furiously scribbling down your poetic litanies celebrating Christ the Redeemer. As I wrestle with my martyr complexes and drown myself in fits of spastic self-indulgent joy.
We must swallow our feelings because we’re not free. We are also not victims. We are still here. We’ve always existed. We survive as you decay.
Honey trickles from your almond sockets and I have never been this rock hard before.
I wrapped the pipe in aluminum foil before stashing away.
I slipped out of bed so I could watch you sleep as a solitary being.
There is nothing sexier than you embarking on your next Silk Road voyage.
You covered me with exclamation points and each one hit its mark.
Charles Cicirella
6/26/15
Wednesday, June 24, 2015
Prime Real Estate
http://charlespoet.podomatic.com/entry/2015-06-24T12_19_46-07_00
I can’t stop thinking about your 38c’s. I know that’s bad of me, but I’m a naughty boy who must repent.
You wrap me around your littlest finger like a piece of blue string and I’m feeling patriotic and I feel like going to the library and reading about Camp David.
Something about your firebrand DNA that resisted all chemical reactions until we happened to meet and created something more lethal than gunpowder and more prolific than Jack Kerouac on a tear.
Prime real estate and curb appeal are two very different things. Keep this in mind the next time you’re reading to a bunch of dog paddlers who fear for their very souls when challenged by the real thing and I’m not talking about Coca-Cola.
Your poetry rocks my world and I know how cliché that sounds, but I swear when experiencing your voice ebbing and flowing like the waves on the cause and effect sea it’s like I’ve never been born and am 10,000 years old simultaneously.
You are rock and roll and I just wanted to tell you how much I admire the way you create the most inescapable and supple of cloud-tattoos with your operatic word symphonies.
I can’t stop thinking about your universal mind. I know that’s awfully high minded of me, but I am an intellectually curious human being who never stops to think about the consequences.
Something about, everything about you. “As I walk, let me walk close to Thee.”
Charles Cicirella
6/24/15
I can’t stop thinking about your 38c’s. I know that’s bad of me, but I’m a naughty boy who must repent.
You wrap me around your littlest finger like a piece of blue string and I’m feeling patriotic and I feel like going to the library and reading about Camp David.
Something about your firebrand DNA that resisted all chemical reactions until we happened to meet and created something more lethal than gunpowder and more prolific than Jack Kerouac on a tear.
Prime real estate and curb appeal are two very different things. Keep this in mind the next time you’re reading to a bunch of dog paddlers who fear for their very souls when challenged by the real thing and I’m not talking about Coca-Cola.
Your poetry rocks my world and I know how cliché that sounds, but I swear when experiencing your voice ebbing and flowing like the waves on the cause and effect sea it’s like I’ve never been born and am 10,000 years old simultaneously.
You are rock and roll and I just wanted to tell you how much I admire the way you create the most inescapable and supple of cloud-tattoos with your operatic word symphonies.
I can’t stop thinking about your universal mind. I know that’s awfully high minded of me, but I am an intellectually curious human being who never stops to think about the consequences.
Something about, everything about you. “As I walk, let me walk close to Thee.”
Charles Cicirella
6/24/15
Tuesday, June 23, 2015
I drove a friend of mine away today.
http://charlespoet.podomatic.com/entry/2015-06-23T14_53_16-07_00
I drove a friend of mine away today.
This isn’t the first time and sadly it will probably not be the last.
Sometimes I will not let go of things and I pick apart every word written and every gesture made.
I refuse to give an inch and systematically push, shove and kick the person until the only thing they can do is flee.
I am not proud of this behavior.
I know I must find some way to free myself from this den of vipers that feeds on my insecurities and strikes the second I let my guard down.
I have only myself to blame and will not make excuses for these deplorable traits.
Oddly this has become more of a confession than a poem.
I drove a friend of mine away today.
I hope I have not done too much damage because her fire glow is something I will miss like I miss riding my bicycle to the library as a kid.
I had just gotten back from Columbus and I remember getting onto FB and there she was.
Charles Cicirella
6/23/15
I drove a friend of mine away today.
This isn’t the first time and sadly it will probably not be the last.
Sometimes I will not let go of things and I pick apart every word written and every gesture made.
I refuse to give an inch and systematically push, shove and kick the person until the only thing they can do is flee.
I am not proud of this behavior.
I know I must find some way to free myself from this den of vipers that feeds on my insecurities and strikes the second I let my guard down.
I have only myself to blame and will not make excuses for these deplorable traits.
Oddly this has become more of a confession than a poem.
I drove a friend of mine away today.
I hope I have not done too much damage because her fire glow is something I will miss like I miss riding my bicycle to the library as a kid.
I had just gotten back from Columbus and I remember getting onto FB and there she was.
Charles Cicirella
6/23/15
Sunday, June 21, 2015
With All of Your Freckled Being
http://charlespoet.podomatic.com/entry/2015-06-21T20_47_29-07_00
I will stop kissing your thighs for one moment so I can type this first line.
I love how you taste like an orange creamsicle.
They don’t taste the same as they did when we were kids and isn’t that true about too many things.
I will stop biting down hard on your nipples for a second so I can gather my thoughts and then dispense with them like three coins in a fountain.
I love how you remind me of black licorice.
I wish candy and ice-cream were still being created for adults. I miss pints of Ben and Jerry’s White Russian ice-cream and Powerhouse candy bars that even gave Snickers a run for their money.
I love when you told me your freckles were everywhere. It left nothing to my imagination while opening up endless possibilities for places my tongue can endlessly wander to and fro.
We bring the best parts of ourselves front and center and that can never be a bad thing no matter your marital status or my inability to make nice with someone for any extended period of time.
Your come hither looks drive me right over the White Cliffs of Dover and I’d prefer it if while making up your mind you continued to speak to me through your unremitting poetry that always keeps me coming back for more.
Charles Eric Cicirella
6/21/15
I will stop kissing your thighs for one moment so I can type this first line.
I love how you taste like an orange creamsicle.
They don’t taste the same as they did when we were kids and isn’t that true about too many things.
I will stop biting down hard on your nipples for a second so I can gather my thoughts and then dispense with them like three coins in a fountain.
I love how you remind me of black licorice.
I wish candy and ice-cream were still being created for adults. I miss pints of Ben and Jerry’s White Russian ice-cream and Powerhouse candy bars that even gave Snickers a run for their money.
I love when you told me your freckles were everywhere. It left nothing to my imagination while opening up endless possibilities for places my tongue can endlessly wander to and fro.
We bring the best parts of ourselves front and center and that can never be a bad thing no matter your marital status or my inability to make nice with someone for any extended period of time.
Your come hither looks drive me right over the White Cliffs of Dover and I’d prefer it if while making up your mind you continued to speak to me through your unremitting poetry that always keeps me coming back for more.
Charles Eric Cicirella
6/21/15
I spoke to Darin Bulai on the phone.
http://charlespoet.podomatic.com/entry/2015-06-21T19_14_06-07_00
I spoke to Darin Bulai on the phone and it’s the first time in a long time that I found someone finishing my sentences and it filled me with hope that creative collisions can still very much exist in this land of the enslaved and home of the cowardly.
I spoke to Darin Bulai on the phone and there were a number of times we interrupted each another, but it was okay because I knew we were both just so overjoyed to be holding a conversation that actually got our juices flowing and didn’t have us feeling like it was time to swallow the barrel of a gun and splatter our brains on the eggshell colored walls.
I spoke to Darin Bulai on the phone and discovered that it’s true if you build it they will come and they’ll bring good ideas and food and drink so no one goes hungry or is thirsty as the sustenance from our minds' eye leaks out and we drown in each other’s creative highs and lows.
I do not have a clue if either one of us can indeed write, but I do not believe that is the point.
He spoke of affectation and I immediately understood where he was coming from and that he is the most unaffected human being I’ve ever come into contact with.
And so what if neither one of us is working and what’s it to you if we’re both living with a parent and doing our best to stay hidden in plain view because the alternatives are less sexy and filled to the brim with unwarranted social convention and recovery scenarios that do not fit the bill.
I found the blueprints in my back pocket along with my cell phone that is probably giving me rectal cancer and some lint left over from 1972.
I found you on FB of all places amid so much endless chatter and inane postings I could give a shit less about. Your writing stung me like a yellow jacket as I rushed myself to the ER and confessed to anyone who would listen that I’m allergic to the beautiful people and all of their egregious trappings and trapdoor ridicule.
The sound of the creaking weathervane woke me up from a relatively sound forty winks as I sit here on the floor, bent over the keys knowing we’ll find our place in the stars once we stop looking for our breaks and accept we’ve already arrived.
Charles Eric Cicirella
6/21/15
I spoke to Darin Bulai on the phone and it’s the first time in a long time that I found someone finishing my sentences and it filled me with hope that creative collisions can still very much exist in this land of the enslaved and home of the cowardly.
I spoke to Darin Bulai on the phone and there were a number of times we interrupted each another, but it was okay because I knew we were both just so overjoyed to be holding a conversation that actually got our juices flowing and didn’t have us feeling like it was time to swallow the barrel of a gun and splatter our brains on the eggshell colored walls.
I spoke to Darin Bulai on the phone and discovered that it’s true if you build it they will come and they’ll bring good ideas and food and drink so no one goes hungry or is thirsty as the sustenance from our minds' eye leaks out and we drown in each other’s creative highs and lows.
I do not have a clue if either one of us can indeed write, but I do not believe that is the point.
He spoke of affectation and I immediately understood where he was coming from and that he is the most unaffected human being I’ve ever come into contact with.
And so what if neither one of us is working and what’s it to you if we’re both living with a parent and doing our best to stay hidden in plain view because the alternatives are less sexy and filled to the brim with unwarranted social convention and recovery scenarios that do not fit the bill.
I found the blueprints in my back pocket along with my cell phone that is probably giving me rectal cancer and some lint left over from 1972.
I found you on FB of all places amid so much endless chatter and inane postings I could give a shit less about. Your writing stung me like a yellow jacket as I rushed myself to the ER and confessed to anyone who would listen that I’m allergic to the beautiful people and all of their egregious trappings and trapdoor ridicule.
The sound of the creaking weathervane woke me up from a relatively sound forty winks as I sit here on the floor, bent over the keys knowing we’ll find our place in the stars once we stop looking for our breaks and accept we’ve already arrived.
Charles Eric Cicirella
6/21/15
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