Friday, February 27, 2015

"the creaking and weathervane sound of it"

going to watch “The Walking Dead”/ eat a Baby Ruth / makes me happy and somewhat grounded / can’t keep up with the jones / they’re either too fast, too slippery or both / the status quo can go to hell / i’m okay with whatever this nothingness misrepresents / trying to write freer like my friend Joni / of course if i’m trying then I have already failed / was in Minnesota at a post office and i remember Jayne only being able to write with a certain color pen / made me feel closer to her knowing she had quirks just like i have quirks and whatever was verboten in the next room would have probably made us both uncomfortable and wishing we had not touched the remote control / “The Walking Dead” is over and i am at a loss for words / the Baby Ruth was okay, but probably should have gotten a Snickers instead / tired of filling myself up with sugar and having no clue when the next pizza will be delivered / have to somehow find a way back into the elephant cage before everything is left of center / heard the creaking of the rusted and god forsaken weathervane / it sounded like a crow being murdered and not in a good way / fuck everybody who doesn’t believe in god and fuck everybody who believes that they are god and that a martyr syndrome is somehow a means to an end

Charles Cicirella

Saturday, February 21, 2015


Full of bluster.
Full of terror.
Full of crap.

This might be another poem.
This might be a cry for kindness.
This is not a suicide note.

Tired of beginnings.
Tired of endings.
Tired of being caught in the middle.

Full of whimsy.
Full of lust.
Full of spinach.

This may be overwrought.
This may be undercooked.
This is not made up in the least little bit.

Full of questions.
Full of wonder.
Full of light.

Charles Cicirella

Friday, February 20, 2015


You write your soul, but still no one seems to get you.
They make fun of you or ignore you completely.
It’s like high school all over again and no one wants to sit with you at lunch.

Most of the time I don’t have a clue what I am talking about and for great intellects I’d much rather put a sock in it than try and make sense out of the equation my brain is sorting out.
I like doughnuts with chocolate frosting and white crème and no that’s not a euphemism.
If I’ve been a good boy I don’t see why I can’t have my cake and eat it too because we all deserve to live a little even if we’re without a job and living on someone else’s dime.

You paint your own tyranny of the empty room, but no one seems to be paying any attention.
They go on and on about the next big thing when the next big thing is you and that has been true from the moment you were created and started painting with your fingers.
We’re not celebrity artists. We’re in it for the long haul. No matter how many beguiling martyrs are forsaken and charming cult leaders go up in smoke?

Most of the time I am flat broke and flat on my back trying to find someone to converse with while watching one miserable television show after another because I find a short attention span more interesting than a long vacation abroad.
I have a taste for Chicken McNuggets even though when going to McDonald’s today I instead ordered two Filet-O-Fish sandwiches. I thought about ordering a McFlurry with OREO® Cookies when leaving but it was so cold outside I decided against it.
Junk food maintains me like phone sex sustains me because to be perfectly honest I am finding it far easier to turn the next phrase than to learn a new magic trick.

I am sorry for continually interrupting you when we’re on the phone. There’s no excuse for my being so rude it’s just knowing you is better than any drug I have ever ingested. 
You feed my soul Joni Lynn Soule and like Oliver Twist “"Please, sir, I want some more."
Your fairy heart shines a light on my warlock soul. Reminding me why I’m still pressing down these keys and singing completely off key.

Charles Cicirella

Thursday, February 19, 2015


We are naked.
We are sunsets.
We are seers.

I held this poem underwater.
It yapped like a pedigree beagle.
Water torture is not for patriots, mavericks or pussies.

We are burning.
We are Haley’s Comet.
We are storytellers.

I held this poem up to the light.
It shined brighter than any super nova.
Rainbows are for leprechauns, munchkins and torch singers.

We are livewires.
We are lightning in a bottle.
We are stigmata.

Charles Cicirella

Monday, February 16, 2015

Brick and Mortar

I’m feeling like shit. It just happened or maybe it’s always just happening.
And there are no words. Except for these words and these words are not proving to be of much comfort.
I’m not a carpenter. I am just a person. A person who is feeling equal amounts shame and disgust for whatever it is they’re unbecoming. Its Kafkaesque this metamorphosis from person to bug to something I cannot even recognize or reconcile lying next to any longer.

You were brilliant and you were going to save me. Until I realized I needed to do my own saving and Lifesavers are only worth sucking when they’re cherry flavored or maybe coconut if you’re in that kind of mood.
Do you remember Hubba Bubba Bubble Gum? I still can recall the Friendly Drugstore on Mayfield Road in South Euclid. This was before CVS and Walgreens bled the life out of what a family drugstore actually was. A place you felt comfortable going to when you needed a quick pick me up and to see a familiar face.
I miss Powerhouse candy bars. I miss asking you what time it is and you giving me some made up answer because you always knew I could care less what time it really was.

I’m feeling like complete crap. I am tired of being called out on the carpet for dreams that have turned into dried flowers pressed in a book like the Bible but far less bloody or compelling.
One word will hopefully lead to the next and then to the next and before you know it you’ve crossed a bridge and a poem is nearly completed.
I’m not a patriot. I am just a person who would go live in another country if I had the money and the wherewithal to pick myself up and get the heck out of Dodge. America the Beautiful keeps going on and on about its special brand of exceptionalism when all I see are a bunch of translucent hipsters cozying up to whatever is convenient at that particular moment as mediocrity rains down upon them like Froyo and fifty shades of vomit.

Charles Cicirella

Saturday, February 14, 2015

Lincoln Logs

I’ve built a fortress around me with words and whatnot.
My first memory is being inside a house. Everything is low-spirited.
I feel sad because no one ever seemed to want to hang out with me.

I told her to use her words not emoticons or silly ass stickers.
When she sings the Pony Express gallops from her throat as messages are delivered.
I’ll never forget how we nearly died from inhaling oil paint and turpentine fumes.

I’m not in control. In fact I’m out of control.
My mother asked me why I’m sleeping so much. I started thinking perhaps it’s because I’m depressed or maybe I’m just tired from doing nothing but waiting for the miracle to come.
The Lincoln Logs felt good in my hands. They reminded me how things fit together especially when unfit and in need of love and Elmer’s Glue.

Many people believe they are artists, but few burn hot enough to create anything actually transformative. 
We are phoenixes and we rise from the ashes unguarded and empty of any deceit.
I’m not proud of how many bridges I have burned. I’m not proud of much these days except what I have pulled together from words and whatnot.

Charles Cicirella

Friday, February 13, 2015

“I forgave her because it’s not over.”

Going to eat some unfrosted strawberry Pop-Tarts.
The frosted ones have never made much sense to me.
I remember breaking like an egg when you called me a coward.
I remember feeling like a chicken the first time I cracked open an egg with blood in it.

I ate the Pop-Tarts.
I drank the Coca-Cola.
And truth be told I don’t feel very good.
In fact in about thirty minutes I may need to take an Alka-Seltzer Heartburn+Gas ReliefChews Tropical Punch Chewable Tablet.

These words like all words leave a stain.
These words like all words brandish a worthless objection.
I’m sick and I’m tired of being a conscientious objector.
I’m sick and I’m tired of laying a bet on the dark horse.

Going to eat a grilled Bavarian ham and Swiss cheese sandwich on Jewish rye.
Any other rye just doesn’t make sense to me.
I remember the first time I went to a Jewish deli and how at home I felt.
I remember the first time I ate a hot pastrami and chopped liver sandwich on Jewish rye and how I knew immediately that would be my go to sandwich for the rest of my life.

These sentences like all sentences leave a bad aftertaste in my mouth.
These sentences like all sentences breakdown before they’ve even hit the page because they have no sense of purpose and are fed up with being out of work and feeling so much pent up rage.
Come here I want to spill a secret into your ear.
Come closer I promise to keep my hands to myself especially when our clothes are disseminated all over the floor like anorexic ghosts and our fucking is devoid of rhythm or for that matter a worthy punchline.

Charles Cicirella

Monday, February 09, 2015

I truly miss the water

The sound of blue green
Waves ,foam ,sand ,security
Living inside a small apartment
Two bedrooms four
very miserable people
Can't breathe each other's air we have too many
Similar inbred similarities
No escape from
The gene pools
living and dying
In this house

You said you were waiting
For something better or someone
Better to come along
A new house
The next door neighbor

Fishing on the deck
Catching catfish
Screaming ! throw it back !throw it back!
Blow fish ,the terrifying sad
Animal I've never seen. for that matter
All the fish were sad
And depressed
desperate for
Diversion in any shape or form
And the water is stable and strong
Except for the occasional tsunami

The empty pool
at Howard Johnson's
I threw up on my birthday cake
You laughed........ok this was
a tragic comedy
You always had the best sense of humor

Why didn't you ask me why
I threw up. This time
I could have told you
Cause the bright red and
Yellow balloons floated over
The unrecognizable concrete
With black lines and steps to nowhere
The connection of the balloons
And the waterless pool
Made a terrifying dream

Spaces of water terrifying beautiful
Mysterious, safe from restaurants
empty pools and claustrophobic

Joni Soule

Thursday, February 05, 2015

Beautiful red blood

I've known you
Since you were 18
I think? I met you
At Milos, at a strange building
glaring wide walls and high ceilings
I believe you took me on a tour
Into a room where you
Conducted open mics
You reminded me of T O Dye
A friend I knew in childhood
Who chased me around the house until my head
Lost direction and sense of space ,rammed
Itself into the corner wall, head hanging down on my mother's knee
And drops of deep red beautiful blood
Dripping drip drip drip drip on the green slate
I loved so much.

Joni Soule

Good and Stoned

I want to get stoned.
I don’t need to get stoned. I just want to get stoned.
I so hope my friend will again bring me some pin joints.
It’s the only time I look forward to waiting for the man.
Unless I am getting a package from the big city and that’s happening less and less these days.

I want a pepperoni pizza.
I don’t need a pepperoni pizza. I just want a pepperoni pizza.
The coupons are sitting on the table and I so wish my mother would take the hint and order us a large pepperoni pizza and a two liter of coke.
It’s the only time I feel like talking to anyone.
When the delivery arrives I am on my feet and out the door faster than a speeding bullet.

My life lessons are not sinking in. And my survival instincts have been out to lunch since 2002.
I haven’t had steady employment for so long I’m not even sure if it’s day or night.
Please understand I am not bragging in the least little bit. In fact I am scared of the uncertainty of my future and why it is I am unable to make any plans stick.
My best friend died in 1998 and that surely took some wind out of my sails, but I know that’s hardly the reason I am at such a loss when it comes to living and thriving.
I’ve never used my being an artist as an excuse, justification or rationale for the piss poor way I get along and I refuse to start now.

I want to leave this place.
I don’t mean die or anything permanent like that. I just want to float for a little while and let my guard down and let my freak flag fly.
I so hope I’ll hear from my friend again soon. I am curious how his music projects are coming along.
We begin and we end with the sentences we construct from ether and bone. I know I’ve made a lasting impression. Now if only I could find the blueprints I left out in the pouring rain.

Charles Cicirella

Wednesday, February 04, 2015

Dr. Feel Nothing At All

(For Joni)

Where’s my highs?
I am tired of all these lows.
I desire some euphoria.
I’m tired of being bummed out and wishing I were dead.

Buddha came to me and told me to suck it up.
Jesus appeared before me and told me to live and let live.
Joan of Arc shot down from the sky like a lightning bolt and told me to never give up the fight.
Oscar the Grouch reminded me my childhood was not all locked cupboards and Jewish guilt.

Where’s my fifteen minutes?
I am tired of all these signals and warnings.
I desire some real desire.
I’m tired of being lost at sea and wish the sharks would devour me whole already.

Charles Cicirella

Monday, February 02, 2015

Building Blocks

Filling myself up with sugar.
I’m made out of Legos.
Paranoia my sunlight.
Sucrose the new crack.

I am a cheap Christmas toy. Batteries not included.
I am the general anesthesia you take for a surgical procedure.
I am the lap dancing Russian astrophysicist you believe will take you to the moon and back.
I am the thin blue line we goad ourselves into challenging in our most God forsaken of soap operas.

Filling myself up with revenge fantasies.
I’m made up of shit.
Intolerance my wedge issue.
Heroin the new heroine.

I am the old man and the sea. Bullets not included.
I am the reprobate you take for granted because my predilection for damnation hits too close to home for you.
I am the high school mascot you believe will cheer you up after you’ve been ravaged and left in the end zone like another under inflated pigskin.
I am the First Amendment protecting our free speech while doing absolutely nothing to protect ourselves from ourselves.

Filling myself up with sickness and disuse.
I’m made up of more not less.
Sadness my midnight hour.
Grey the new puce.

Charles Cicirella