Saturday, March 28, 2015


(For Leah Mueller, Russ Van Rooy, Juliet Cook, Joni Soule, Christina M. Brooks, Erica Jayne Johnson, Darin Bulai, Steven Smith & Daniel Kennedy)

There’s a blizzard of words in my head.
No two snowflakes are alike and it’s the same with words and people and even prayers once you put them under the microscope.
There’s a blizzard of you in my head and it’s bound to kill me dead. It’s okay though because I have always wanted to overdose on someone else’s wordage. It’s a self-fulfilling prophecy like being white and walking through the south side of Chicago at night.

We met on FB a funny place to hookup I will admit, but it seems like more and more people are doing this social networking thing which I believe has ushered in a new age of anti-social behavior.
Close knit societies are no longer all the rage and quilting bees seem to have worn out their warm, cozy welcome.
When it comes to poetry slams I’d rather slam my head against a cement wall than enter my blood poetry into a blood sport where a bunch of professional alcoholics skewer me like a roast pig.

There’s a tempest in a teapot of poetry in my head.
No two poems are alike and the same goes with a good cup of English tea once you stop being a snob and accept Afternoon tea as an inevitability.
There’s a populace of poets raging in my head. It’s alright though because I rather like all of these creative peoples ransacking my chamber of commerce brain and leaving me completely spent and whittled down in size. It’s a self-fulfilling prophecy like eating only ghosts morning, noon and night and going to bed haunted and full of someone else’s memories and regrets.

Charles Cicirella

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