Sunday, April 29, 2007



Modesto, California
Another dustbowl
Another dead-end

I remember Death Valley
Hans the German tourist
Orange juice and oatmeal



Lancaster, California
Another pawnshop
Another dead man

I remember dry heat
Pony rides



April 29, 2007
day to day

walking across the bridge the other day
thought about diving, plunging, flying
not because I ever would
not because I ever could

walking across the bridge today
wind blowing on my face
cars hurrying by too busy to stop and smell the concrete
I felt tremendously alive
there were no constraints holding me back
no bars leveling the playing field by offering nothing
but isolation

I live in this body and no one else’s
in fact we’re all only renting until moving on
to another kind of summer house
I drank the glass of water that was half full until it was empty
I evaded responsibility until I had all the time left in this world

we must live and let live like it’s our last day on Earth
scraping the bone of our brains until the pencil bends than breaks
a thousand mirrors and not one reflection that makes any sense
a million impressions made and only the first one really counts

when my uncle died the only thing I took from his house was
Marlon Brando’s autobiography, when my best friend hung himself
I knew he was no longer committed to much of anything
there are no escape hatches
failsafe is never foolproof.

Charles Cicirella
April 28, 2007
(for Lynda Sams)
"two minute whiplike threads of protoplasm"

I’m not afraid of the dark
Afraid of a demon reaching up and stealing my identity
I am my own demon, angel, transient being.

Duck ponds remind me of our love affair
As do promiscuous squirrels and Mediterranean food.
First time I rode a bike in over ten years was with you.
I’ll never forget how much you sounded like Howlin’ Wolf
Or Bob Dylan when he says, “thank you”.

You told me I was a bad writer and it cut me to the quick.
Not sure why your opinion means so much or why
I became so overwrought when you refused to listen.

Going to the library bittersweet since our breakup,
Checking my email nowhere near as exciting nor is
Talking about music or looking at clothes.
I was like a kid in a candy store when we first recognized
Each other at that ballpark on the outskirts of town.

I know you don’t understand what it is I’m doing or why my life
Is always in such a state of disrepair while I dispense of the rules
And go my own way. I want so badly to be a hero, a visionary, a
Romantic figure and perhaps I am or perhaps I’m not.

We stand alongside an infinitesimal number of golden rules
Praying we don’t break beneath the pressure or begin seeing
Ourselves through someone else’s eyes and all I want is to
Figure out how to not look back so I can move forward
Instead of sideways or backwards.

April 25, 2007

Saturday, April 21, 2007



An Invocation – butterfly medicine – horn of plenty – she constructs her own ark with every stroke – no recycling – no petty jealousies or awkward silences – no fillers or artificial flavors – no sweatshops – no predators – no incest –

stop feeding on America the spectacle – America the brain dead – America the grotesque –
her painting purified – nothing profane or indignant – she refuses to rest on her laurels or settle for less -

we were in a room – heat and flames shooting up toward Heaven – her mouth filled with Bazooka bubble gum – mine stuffed with blue cotton candy – two children comfortable enough in their own skins to go down to the shore and dance in the lava –

I become a great explorer when gazing into her horse and buggy visions – into future Gospels no one but a fairy could have created – an Invitation – a well honed wake up call – siren of solitude – she controls nothing not even herself thank God

Charles Cicirella
April 21, 2007
(for Joni)

Wednesday, April 11, 2007

The Grand Illusion

put the phone to your ear and wait for her call – wait for patriotism to stop breaking your heart – for the blood on our hands to disappear and for what the flag supposedly represents to mean something more than a dollar earned is another politician bought and paid for – all this posturing - speechifying – declarations for an independence no one actually lives and dies for unless that is you’re a soldier of misfortune sent to fight in someone else’s civil war – we’re all slaves to a corporate mindset doing too good a job wiping out the middle class

being forced to fall on our own swords over and over again until there’s nothing left but television static and chicken soup for more dead souls – we must learn to stop adapting so easily to a reward system rewarding only the haves and never the have nots - we must wake up and realize we’re prostitutes not patron saints

I’m not proud of the carnage piling up like crackling leaves in the name of America the beautiful – America the proud – America the dispassionate – America the profane – America the damned and forsaken – the bald eagle fed to a murder of hungry Christians in a coliseum of our own devising and despicable natures

The legacy being handed down to our children a legacy of fear and ignorance all too readily proven by the mistakes we continue making in the name of progress and staying the course.

Charles Eric Cicirella
April 11, 2007