Sunday, August 21, 2022

Poem 4

Drinking water



Charles Cicirella

Poem 3 (Groceries)



garlic bread

coca cola

Charles Cicirella

Poem 2

Lying on the mattress, cowboys and injuns making bedlam on my soul                                                                                                                                                                                      

                                                                     I cannot breathe this                                                                                                                                                                                                                

                                                                     polluted anxiety anymore

Charles Cicirella


Sunday, August 07, 2022


The raging river sounds like a highway of tears repeat after me I will not drown in my subconscious I will not drown in my subconscious

Charles Cicirella

Saturday, July 16, 2022

This is how I write.

It’s how I’ve always written.
I’m in and out the door in ten to fifteen minutes.
The imagery lies in wait like a big cat on the prowl.

Streams of consciousness freely flowing like jagged puzzle pieces down an opaque river.
Poetry is in my blood like chunky alphabet soup served at the shelter for the culturally ill-defined.
This is how I write as I hardly break a sweat churning out the pulp like a versifier high on noir and sodden bread.

Reasonable doubt goes out the window as a jury of my peers stare blankly back at me from gothic mirrors leaving nothing, but the macabre to the convulsed imagination.
I believe I fell in love because her soul was just as polluted as mine and when she did the tango it was for keeps.
This is how I blindside you by not once coming up for air until all the inflatable poets are deflated and another beat writer rehearses for his overdue retirement.

This game of to have and have not never impressed me so I left community college and refused to look back.
The stage like the gallows is the only place I’ve ever let it all hang out as an audience of Titanic faces fights over the very last lifeboat.
Look up at the moon and tell me how little it has changed since first writing about it thirty nine years ago.

Charles Cicirella

Tuesday, July 12, 2022

The Blood

  His voice uncovers the great mystery. Darkness lifts as the stone is pushed away and a new man walks free. Rob’s “A Voice from on High” is the song the Israelites heard as they escaped Egypt because Rob carries a great burden in his soul. All honest to God prophets must sacrifice everything before a burning bush is revealed to them. Blood covers his voice because it’s Blood carrying us through as we’re freed from bondage and enter the Promise Land dressed in sackcloth and fresh tears.  

Charles Cicirella

Monday, July 04, 2022

Bursting Through Unconsciousness #3

No one’s paying attention
No one gives a shit
The cross the poet carries a cloak of invisibility in a hell-scape of attention seekers

Lying to oneself gets you five to ten on a long list of forget-me-nots who never learned smelling the flowers is crucial to one’s survival
Quickly lost interest in porn so I started paying attention to the plight of the worker ants and their day to day struggle to stay poor and angry
Our productivity mustn’t be the key to someone else’s happiness because our souls are ours alone to protect and serve

No one’s lifting a finger to change a damn thing
The Supreme Court continues to supremely fuck us as the Wild West comes back into vogue like ethnic cleansing
We must burst through unconsciousness and discover ourselves at the end of a long, dark tunnel where the light still favors a happy ending.

Charles Cicirella

Bursting Through Unconsciousness #2

He’s gone
Another poet dead and buried
He shot pomp and circumstance in the head

He wasn’t full of shit and pathos like too many Cleveland poets
First time I saw him read I felt both unnerved and like I’d been hugged by the universe
His hunger never abated and his quest for knowledge was never satiated

He was the very first poet astronaut I’ve ever met. He introduced me to the cosmos when he laid down his words like a red carpet of blood and synapses
The news of his passing punched me in the gut and I swear I’ll never be the same again
One of the good ones who knew the jig was up and never judged the foxes too harshly for raiding the henhouse

He’s out of here
Another poet shot into space
He introduced each and every one of us to a kind heart and the beauty of an unabashed shooting star

I love and already terribly miss you Terry

Charles Cicirella

Thursday, June 30, 2022

Life Preserver (For Emily Davis)

Ipps cry from the wilderness like a dog with no bone.
A prescient yelp from a Whitman soul that knows no boundaries or borderlines.
I was screaming while I wrote this and Emily nor Bo were either phased nor in the least little bit concerned for their safety.

Poetry isn’t for wimps no matter how you slice or dice it.
Recess was never much fun until I discovered Sue Leair and her skunks and number nine mythologies.
When staring into the void it’s best to have both eyes shut in case a vesper or pebble gets through your lowly defenses.

Emily sings louder than all the rest because her soul mustn’t be contained as the hellhounds on her trail stop off at a hotel in San Antonio where they hear tell of a journeyman laying down the real blues medicine.
I can’t fight this feeling because I’m a child of the eighties where big hair and Porky’s got the best of many of us.
My prom had a Bon Jovi theme because we were still wanted dead or alive as we wished for the horror of high school to be laid to rest.

This life preserver turns no one away because Emily believes that charity is not only a false Christian construct.
I wish I could get Lamont Thomas on drums as I screamed this poem to the high Heavens.
More inflatable consonants and vociferous vowels to lead us past the flames and into a paradise of pomegranates and purring Siamese cats.

Ipps inflate nothing because they understand how crucial it is to be counted in a forest of starving roadblocks and frozen impediments.
One more false prophet flaking out because their bourbon wasn’t top shelf as Emily stands tall by never turning her back on anyone.
Bo and Emily are in my heart because I’ve had enough of false equivalents.

Charles Cicirella

Wednesday, June 29, 2022


Burroughs, Ginsberg and Kerouac were not beat.
Another misnomer in a cemetery of fossilized writers who deserve way better than they ultimately got.
I’ll never understand why Brautigan is called a beat, but lazy people throwing around loaded terminology catch us up in the fan blades of humdrum mediocrity.

Self-righteousness runs rampant in a hierarchy where the quizlings trivialize the very last bastion of humanity because they’ve got nothing better to do as they serve out their life sentences for being disingenuous to the nth degree.
To the victor go the spoiled sour grapes once the dagger is pulled from their Caesar backs and the taste of crow is accepted as a delicacy.
False prophets are a dime a dozen in a crisis of conscience chronicled in blistering Chesterton fashion.

He asked why I kept doing this and I answered because I’m tired of people not paying attention.
The Peter Principle continues fucking us as the incompetent are handed trophies while the truly gifted get their heads served up on a platter.
Think of Cassidy as John the Baptist and Judas as Sal Paradise, another dharma bum fixated on writing the next great American road atlas.

I’m plum out of regrets because notoriety was never a dark enough horse for me to bet upon.
The writing game is something I never took lightly because I realized early on how great the sacrifices are that must be made.
Wise men dispense with the accolades and get down to doing the honest to God work before it’s too late.

Charles Cicirella