Monday, December 16, 2013



New soul
Expert witness

We pop

Brain food

I am
We are

Perfect catch

Long distance runner
Star sprinter
Meerkat purring

Basking in the sun
I’ve swallowed the moon
Promised Land beckons...

Charles Eric Cicirella

Thursday, December 12, 2013


why can’t they hear it
are they deaf? blind?
why are so many
resistant to change?
I love the seasons you
pass through like a
private investigator
rummaging through
old steamer trunks
looking for a phone
number that was
written on the back
of a matchstick

I remember Casablanca
Bob and I remember
Dooley Wilson singing,
singing for you like
you were Humphrey Bogart
I know you wanted to be him
stranded in some petrified forest
making time with the waitresses
like they actually understood you
and knew what it meant to be a legend
and not give a shit

you have always told us where
it was at and you still are telling us
why it is important to take a stand
because it’s not dark yet, but it’s
getting there and I’m afraid to let go
Bob I’m afraid you won’t remember
how we sheltered each other from the
impossible storms in both our imaginative
and poetic visions; how we both agreed
Vincent knew what he was up against
and that if he hadn’t taken his life we would
not be as acquainted with our own desires nor
would we give so much of a damn

the paint pulls us in as we turn our backs on
pressure cooker romance and all the self-medicated
responses she attempted before I convinced her
it’s no good being a victim when your back is
up against the wall anyhow and anyway you
slice it you are still going to have to enter the
eye of the storm before it is too late and all
the usual suspects are rounded up and later
dispensed with because every one of them
had a foolproof alibi, everyone but you Bob
your alibi was almost unbelievable in all its
deliberate and desperate fury

I wish we could shield each other from contempt
and I wish so much more was understood without
words or gestures of faith that faithless pedestrians
move through like ghosts with no fixed destination …

Charles Cicirella 5.6.03 (For Bob Dylan)

Tuesday, December 10, 2013


I was fourteen years old
Had an old beat up vinyl copy
Of Highway 61 Revisited from the library
I can remember the first time I attempted
Playing it and how the foreign sounds pouring
From the speakers pushed me down
Beneath subterranean landscapes

Six months later I revisited that same copy of
Highway 61 now long over-due, this time though
The foreign sounds did not seem so foreign
Matter a’ fact it was the only thing I discovered
Myself relating to

From this moment on nothing has spoken louder
Or clearer or truer, from this moment on The Doors
And The Beatles just would not do
I needed an edge that could redefine my boundaries
I sought an oblivion that desired to be consumed
And a sharp intellect that left phonies Blowin’ In The

Dylan opened a door to my subconscious long boarded
Up by the mongrel dogs who teach and this “Equality,”
He spoke of I did not need to completely comprehend
Because he has this revolutionary way of
Bringing it all back home

These days when I discover myself seeking solace or communion
Or whatever gets me through the night, these days when nothing
Makes much sense I turn toward his voice and the compassion
And joy made real by this myth, and this song and dance man.

Charles Cicirella 3:01 PM 5.22.2002
Commissioned by Ron House to be read at Used Kid’s Records
For Bob Dylan’s 61rst. B-Day!

Monday, November 25, 2013


(For Dan Gallows)

Dan Klute
What a hoot
Gets it right down to his Blue Suede shoes

Dan Klute
What a hoot
He’s the cat’s pajamas of drivers and understands what it means to change lanes without restraint

Dan Klute
What a hoot
He brings earnestness to the word earnest in this twenty first century of divine decrepitude

Dan Klute
What a hoot
No one here gets out alive except for those chosen few who do not worry themselves over such things as death and the sins of deadly omission

Dan Klute
What a hoot
Let’s leave the leavers and get what has always been ours for the taking!

Charles Cicirella

Saturday, October 12, 2013

Music Box

(For Molly Andrews)

We begin wrestling in the mud like idiot savants and adolescent Gods. And nothing matters until the page is turned and the songbook is filled with stardust.

She introduced me to a Gospel Train when playing the autoharp for us on McMillen Ave. It was the year of who knows when and I am a better man for everything that was created and destroyed in those misplaced and unidentified times.

We end wrestling with the mythos of resurrection like wise old fools and hungry forsaken devils. And everything makes a difference when we focus on the breath of life existing inside of us.

Molly Andrews is a harmonic convergence whose birth keeps us all eternally young and infinitely foolish.

Charles Cicirella


(For Veronica)

I am lost in her music.
I yearn to get lost in her hard rain.
I wished upon a star and her eyes appeared open and wanting.

I am found in her grace.
I am frozen in space, the Earth’s gravitational pull refuses to pay any attention to me.
I positioned myself as a Romeo and fell as flat as the Earth was once believed to be.

We must forge ahead.
We must adapt to changing conditions because evolution will not wait for us to catch up.
We must see through remnants of lost love and never forget that soul mates do exist even though they may not be all that usual in these unusual days and nights.

I desire to be in the same room with her the next time her heart dances upon the keys.
I long to hold her turbine body as she sets the wheels in motion, ultimately setting us both free.
I wished upon a star and she appeared before me peaceful and on fire like Joan of Arc.

Charles Cicirella


(For Rick Polhamus)

This is a new beginning because I know you understand what is meant by a new beginning.
This is never ending because I know you understand what is meant by something that never ends.
And when everything began making sense is the precise moment the writing on the wall vanished.
And when nothing any longer makes a lick of sense, that is when we must get our hands dirty and completely eradicate the ghosts in our rolling stone hearts.

I was brave and not afraid to admit it until realizing my bravery was in fact cowardice sold to the highest blind and deaf bidder.
I was strong and not afraid to admit it until realizing my strength was weakness and I was getting nowhere fast walking around in chain metal.
I was bulletproof and not afraid to admit it until realizing I had been shot full of holes long before I had even been born, and dying is too often seen as no big deal when the life you are living is not really living.

New beginnings are sculpted from clay and honest to God possibility.
When meeting you for the first time and every time since I know I am meeting a true believer who understands to preach the word of God, one must first live in God.
There are never ending mysteries taking shape all around once we shatter the mirror images in our love sick eyes and again understand that our souls do indeed carry the weight.
When talking with you on the phone I always feel renewed inside and I think it has everything to do with the sound of your laughter and how it breaks free of convention and brings me back to the Garden.

Charles Eric Cicirella

New Orleans: Sex & Death

(For Bob Dylan)

Break through the cold
Reject impermanence  

We’re immortal
Embrace transience

Stranger in a strange land
Brushstrokes conjuring up ghosts

His paintings vibrate
His paintings howl
His paintings soak up the blood on the killing floor.

Dance in the white flames
Resurrection a sanctified state of body and mind
Death is not the end.
Charles Eric Cicirella

Sunday, May 19, 2013


(For Jim Volk)

Listen to the silence between the notes, to the rapture throughout his transmigrations.
His playing is ageless and has always been beyond the scope.

He breaks through the sham of domesticity.
Refuses to beat a dead horse because he knows a dead horse will always come back to mock you.
Replenishes his guitar epiphanies with a self confidence that stays focused on a pursuit of true happiness and not of stilted happenstance.

Listen to the sound above the notes, to the train track reservoirs of falling waters.
He does not believe in obedience for obedience sake because he is an old dog always willing to learn new behaviors.

Charles Eric Cicirella

Friday, February 01, 2013


(For Tom Jones)

Super heroes do indeed exist.
They don’t wear capes or tights.
Some actually wear glasses and eat lots of fast food.

Tom Jones is not a menace.
Tom Jones is your friendly neighbor who always waves and says hello.
Tom Jones plays the drums and guitar like he’s been doing it since before Rome burned.

As friends go you couldn’t ask for anyone nicer or more generous.
When you’re down and out he may invite you out to Harrisburg for a steak or maybe he’ll hand you a jelly doughnut because he knows how much they make you smile.
There are still a few genuine people left in this world and Tom Jones is definitely one of them.

I think the real rock stars have yet to really have their day in the sun.
I think the real rock stars are quite often working some non-descript job pushing papers and somehow making it work for them.
I think the real rock stars are focused primarily on honing their craft and don’t bother themselves with the trappings of fame or mediocrity.

Charles Cicirella 1/29/2013