Tuesday, September 13, 2011

Record Cabinet

(For Tamara)

Immersed in the passivity of blood
Not you, oh no never you
Do you recall when we were children and rode on dinosaurs?
I believe in evolution
I believe Bubbles finally forgave Michael Jackson.

We were at a party listening to heaven-sent records
One of those records Highway 61 Revisited and I believe it was the vinyl’s scratchiness that brought us closer together
I’ve never been very good at small talk and yet when talking with you I discovered it easier to be interesting and to actually carry on a conversation without feeling like the village idiot.

Immersed in a passion play of epic proportions
And when the blood is spilled it is spilled for no good reason
And when the blood is consumed a fairy tale of conditioning and condemnation takes hold forevermore
I look into your Indiana eyes and spy the warrior Joan of Arc
I look into your Midwestern soul and am introduced to a jigsaw puzzle of great lakes and greater proposals.

I believe in revolution
I believe we must unearth the politics of man and design new tools to rebuild a fractured humanity
I believe that even a cleansing of fire will not awaken us from our comatose states
I believe the record cabinet an ark of civil disobedience riding atop the hypnotic waves of an opaque oblivion.


Sunday, September 11, 2011

A Poem for Rhamah

We drive through hell with nothing on our backs and I do mean nothing
Collateral damage mustn’t get in the way of your true feelings and letting go is for the dinosaurs.

We were whispers before we were screams
We were primal even before fire had been created and sold to the lowest of indigenous creatures
We mustn’t rely on religion when even God has moved to higher ground
We must push through our limitless dream-states before we can remove original sin from our limited mindsets.

I want to go to the zoo and pet a panda bear
I need to forget how disingenuous the circus can be
I believe in hard work and all the calluses that go along with it
I'm impressed at how quickly you saw through me.


A Second Poem for Rhamah

I hide inside my body
I fool myself into believing my body a fortress
I fool myself into believing my belief system bulletproof.

Truth is an alley none of us care to get caught in after dark
Truth can be difficult to swallow if all you have to drink is gasoline
The truth will set you free or at least that’s the word on the street.

I try my best to not hide myself behind my writing
Writing is the one place I strive in keeping it real
A Breakfast of Champions is nothing but a bowl of stones.


Model Sound

(For Tamara)

Turn your pages
With my fingers

God didn’t write the Bible
Jesus rarely went to the library
The Holy Ghost loves a good ghost story

I want to look into your dark cherry eyes, whisper sweet nothings in your cotton candy ears and hold your skeletal frame while we ruminate on Harry Smith.

Charles Cicirella

Friday, August 26, 2011

Glass & Stone

Cannot rebuild this palace
This palace refuses to be rebuilt
Neither the glass nor the stones will comply
Her eyes are two mirrors in an unlit changing room.

I am shivering
Just finished watching The Misfits
I’m in love with a size twelve Marilyn Monroe
We’re all wild stallions awaiting Clark Gable or Montgomery Clift to bring us to our senses.

Something tells me this isn’t my first go around
The last bird that whispered in my ear was a wounded eagle
Forget everything you plan to do and just focus on what can be accomplished when both hands are tied behind your back.

This is the most stubborn process I have ever encountered
I remember working on a building with one of the two Elvises and how beautiful he looked when we rode on a bicycle built for two through a blinding dust storm
Her fun is being held for ransom behind her 12 Angry Men eyes.

I am burning up
I’m listening to Art Tatum
I’m thinking about eating another pastrami and chopped liver sandwich even though I know it will make me feel sick
Each and every one of us is a character in a Philip K. Dick short story and if you don’t believe me there’s your proof.

Glass and stone
Stone and glass
Revisiting your past ultimately will outpace you
We sat together on his front steps as he told me that it was alright, and that he had played the game and was now paying the price.

Charles Cicirella
August 20, 2011

Sunday, May 29, 2011

I Am So Tired Of Being Alone

If this is what’s meant by a dark night of the soul you can put it in your pipe and smoke it.
I am so tired of being alone, so tired of having no one to talk to, so tired of being sick and tired.

Lying down doesn’t do the trick and waking up and reliving the same day only makes things far worse.
I am so tired of being alone, so tired of waiting for the phone to ring and when it does I am so tired of wishing people would not bother me because it only reiterates how little I actually have to say.

When the music seeps into my skull the melancholia is held at bay for notes at a time and I find myself in sweet relief and some sort of suspended animation. I have never had much time for recreational drugs, but music I suspect works something like heroin because when I get lost and found in the music I feel as if I have kissed the face of God.

Charles Cicirella

Alice in Stitches

I was driving all night
Couldn’t stand the heat
So I stepped out of the kitchen

Even lotus blossoms have their dark days
Even a Japanese lantern goes black every now and then
Sometimes even a rainbow wants to strangle Judy Garland dead

Wasn’t born with a silver spoon in my mouth
There were no utensils anywhere nearby my place of birth
I vividly remember choking on the Holy Ghost in Indiana

I am losing my memory
I have fallen down a deep rabbit hole I prefer did not actually exist
I don’t feel like doing the crosswords and I am tired of fucking myself

I was tossing and turning all day
It was like this religious fervor had taken over my anxiety ridden Godless soul
All I could taste in my mouth was bile and it kept me awake with its burning hellfire.

Charles Cicirella

Thursday, March 10, 2011


I am coming to an end
There is no more disputing that
I am tired of arguing with myself.

My wild stallions have become part of a stationary Merry Go Round
My loud unrepentant ideas have slithered away like cowardly serpents
My wishes have all been played out and I have no one to blame but myself.

I was a child
Now I am an adult
I am wasted and worn out.

No complaints
Just compliance
Screams of transparent rage.

I am coming to a beginning
A truth I wrestle with joyfully and resolutely
I am reinstalling a belief system broken down and obsolete.

Charles Cicirella

Saturday, January 01, 2011

I’m Back Again

I’m looking at a blank screen not sure I can still do this, but I am going to give it a shot because writing has always been the one thing I do best.

And I want to put my arms around you and I want to climb inside your trunk and I know this is a run on sentence and I know I’m running on fumes.

My license has expired, my heart is out on parole and I know it appears I could give a shit less, but trust me when I tell you compassion is where it’s at as I try and escape from the same old grind plaguing me like some poorly written script.

And I want to put my arms around you and I want to climb out of your junk and I know this is a run on sentence and I know my time is nearly spent.

I’m looking in the mirror turning up the heat on my own fraudulent desires as I turn my back on creature comforts because they never seem to get the job done.

Charles Cicirella