Saturday, July 11, 2015

Animal Crackers

I know you’re hungry. I’m hungry too.
The way you get my words.
The way you make music from words and words into crystal latticed semiconductors of hypnotic flow is a sight to behold. And I refuse to surrender to your resolve because my own resolve is plenty good enough and has gotten me this far.

These are not love letters. I’m not even semi-hard as I type this.
These are not Letters to Milena so don’t go getting your panties all in a bunch.
I need to experience Sabbath with you one on one. Like a live television broadcast there will be commercial breaks and we’ll get to know one another in the green room.

When I mentioned that writing was for me like taking down dictation straight from my brainstem and you responded it was the same for you, that’s when I started to believe you were a believer just like me.
Streams of consciousness shoot through our battle fatigues and we mustn’t worry about the cost we’ll ultimately pay because our deliverance has always been contingent on absolute and abject otherness and the belief that free will is only half of the picture.
Our pasts are past due and the reason we’re so comfortable with these futuristic cave drawings is because we were present when they first came into bloody being. Just like when a baby cuts their first tooth and a little whiskey helps kill the pain.

Grouch Marx is our benefactor. Harpo Marx his silent partner in the lost art of slapstick slaughter.
What happens when all of our Christ figurines have come down with a case of the flu? What happens if we don’t figure some way to withstand our own desperate pleas?
I need for us to meet with no distractions, including all of that needless expediency that gets us to the good part that much faster and yet proves to be just more buzzkill.

I like my animal crackers straight from the zoo.
I like my honey straight from the honeybee.
I like my poetry straight from the spicket. At first I thought you were a mirage then it became all too apparent that you are flesh, blood and words and burn hotter than rocket fuel.

Charles Cicirella

Monday, July 06, 2015

Thin Ice

Just hit the pipe.
It’s just some pot.
Nothing heavy like heroin, cocaine or alcohol.

Haven’t written in a few days, but the writing is an old friend so odds are it will forgive me.
I know we’re on thin ice ever since I confessed to feeling love and you’re still trying to keep it casual in your head even though the rest of your body is warm for my form.
There’s no denying I’m an instigator even when I’m saying nothing, eyes closed, hands unclenched.

They say Bernie Sanders is a socialist like that’s a mark against him.
Conservative media, liberal media they’re all eating and drinking from the same trough. The only one who is telling the truth other than Bernie is Elizabeth Warren, but she’s not running and Bernie doesn’t have a chance in hell of even winning the nomination.
This poem is all over the map because I cannot afford GPS. In fact I still have a flip phone and it’s plenty smart enough for me.

Going to reload the pipe.
Then I am going to imagine you naked and spewing poetry and other juices from your most trusted of orifices.
We’re chatting on FB and I just asked you if you were shaved. I know you will either say no comment or stonewall me as you have a habit of doing. Trust me I understand how awful it is wrestling with guilt. I also know we’re skating on thin ice and that global warming should be scaring us into real action.

Charles Cicirella

Sunday, July 05, 2015

This struggle seems almost harder.

The Madonna hears her son’s cries.
To live the way we choose.
To die the way we choose.
A privilege yes, but sadly not a right.

Preston is the real athlete.
The rest of us are bystanders if we’re lucky.
I don’t want to hear what part God’s supposedly playing.
I’m not sure what I believe and if pressed on the matter I may just acquiesce. 

The struggle is definitely harder.
Even the aftermath fails in stature.
Serving a life sentence and all he did was forget to put his seatbelt back on.
The Madonna tends to her son’s wounded chakras.

Preston is the miracle.
There are no saints or sinners just survivors and evil do-gooders.
I’m not interested in any explanation Our Father may wish to proffer.
I’m starting to believe The Big Bang happened the second God’s back was turned.

Charles Cicirella

Saturday, July 04, 2015

Madonna and Child, Eternal Spring and Eve

If I tell you I love you it’s because I can hardly contain myself. If I tell you I want you it’s because the words formed on my lips and I don’t know what else to do with them. If I write poems for you it’s because you inspire me like no other and I cannot shake your brain power or your sculpted sexuality. My middle name is sweet chaos so please don’t go worrying yourself over the many speedbumps we’re sure to encounter. You are the Logan Sapphire cut from a crystal mined in Sri Lanka. And I am a rare 'pigeon-blood' ruby mined from fairy tale and unguarded promises. Poetry is our bond and our cornerstone, my love.

Charles Cicirella

Friday, July 03, 2015

Poetry is My Protection

Her words not mine.
She reminded me that I know how to write in both blood and stardust.
My words not hers.

I’m a pushy son of a bitch.
I’m hard to love.
I don’t trust love. Not one bit.

You appeared out of the clear blue sky.
I find myself smiling more than I’ve ever smiled before.
Poetry is how and where I lower my guard.

Poetry is my protection. Her words not mine.
You bring me around to other ways of thinking and spinning. My words not hers.
The mold was broken when I was born. “On the day that you were born the angels got together and decided to create a dream come true.”*

Charles Cicirella

* "(They Long to Be) Close to You" is a popular song written by Burt Bacharach and Hal David.