Thursday, July 31, 2014

Rib Meat

I’ve fallen down.
Fallen apart.
Fallen away.

I spat in the eye of inspiration, and inspiration will have none of it.
I’m going to eat some chicken nuggets even though I know they don’t treat chicken right.
My muse is a ninja assassin, and I am a pacifist who believes to turn the other cheek is tantamount to murder.

I’m wrestling past transgressions.
I’m sitting on the floor, pressing down the keys as the words appear before me wanton and without a sexual orientation.
I’m going mad as I consider watching Noah and pretending Russell Crowe is still a good actor.

The poetry comes, and the poetry goes.
I’ve used a pencil, pen, typewriter, word processor and now a laptop.
This line of work is not for the squeamish because there is no work to be had, and if you have a heart you’re sure to end up vacant, numb and completely isolated.

I don’t envy Icarus one bit.
I don’t pretend to be anything but a redhead with freckles who burns too easily in the sun.
I don’t like strawberries, and I’m not sure I’d know what to do with a plate of crab legs if they were set down in front of me.

I had a friend who was a guitar-exorcist.
He was the only person who got me, and I believe that’s because he never listened to my whining or put up with my bullshit.
I had a friend who was a prophet of the heart like Leonard Cohen and Bob Dylan.

I have fallen down a black hole.
I’ve fallen down the rabbit hole.
I am through pretending as I accept that sleep may be the most addictive drug of all.

Charles Cicirella

Wednesday, July 23, 2014


Break open your heart.
Leave the remnants on the bar.
Leave what remains stapled to the ceiling.

These words don’t come easy.
Most of the time these words don’t come at all.
And when they do I’m left with nothing to say.

The rain is cold on my face.
And I know I should go inside and get a coat.
But I swear the only absolution I’ve ever experienced is when drenched from head to toe, windows rolled down, radio turned up to eleven.

You think it’s easy.
You think extracting blood from stone is an everyday miracle.
You think God’s really in the details.

I’m here to tell you hustling does no one no good.
And who you know only brings you closer to the devil.
I’m here to tell you the beast within is our only salvation.

Break open your skull.
Leave the pieces in the glove compartment of the Crown Vic idling out back.
Leave what remains stapled to the fucking sky.

Charles Cicirella

Monday, July 21, 2014

These Words

These words are lumberjacks, and I intend to cut down all these trees in my path.
These words are serial killers, and I intend to kill anyone who veers off the path.
These words are jumping jacks, and I intend to hold onto these childish things for as long as they preserve a path toward righteous indignation. 

We wish, stumble and crash.
We plot, scheme and pray.
We win, lose and draw.

These words are blanket reminders of what once was, long before God jumped ship and Christ was handed a raw deal.
These words are burnt offerings from another time and place when the past, present and future were locked in the same cell and a skeleton key was swallowed by a great whale.
These words are beta blockers keeping you alive just long enough to face the inconvenient truth that no one here gets out alive.

We piss, moan and vent.
We howl, cackle and roar.
We descend, drop away, and go downhill.

These words are stowaways, and I intend to make a break for it as soon as I find my sea legs.
These words are coordinates on a map and I intend to pinpoint Shangri-La before I am consumed by all these lost horizons.
These words are bullet points in a PowerPoint presentation impressing no one and getting me no further than the next fork in the road.

Charles Cicirella

Saturday, July 19, 2014

Killing Floor

4:18 AM

Cut through rabble
Cutout distillation

4:20 AM

Make a move
Any move will do

4:20 AM

Positive reinforcement
First impressions shatterproof

4:21 AM

Wicked witch doctor

4:22 AM

Cut down broccoli treetops
Cutting repartee

4:24 AM

Negative assertions
Trained assassin

4:27 AM

Song and dance man

Charles Eric Cicirella

Tuesday, July 08, 2014

Another Poem About Bob Dylan

I hear him pleading
Pleading like an American
Pleading like a human stain
I hear his reckless chitter-chatter

And I am blinded
Blinded by his supernova sensibilities
Blinded by his intellect burning a hole in the sun
I am given new eyes to see when he punctures the skyway

Another train car smoking down the tracks
Another troubadour freed from their Houdini chains
Another Gemini trickster spoiled by the duality of their sins

This junkyard medicine deserves a special place in Heaven
I was born a poet and someday I’ll surely die a poet - what’s it to you
Take me for a trip upon your magic swirling ship
I’m ready to join this circus and get the hell out of Dodge.

Charles Eric Cicirella