Another poem no one will read.

http://charlespoet.podomatic.com/entry/2015-09-20T01_11_04-07_00

Making a habit of writing into a vacuum.
There is a black hole and I’ve made it an ally by feeding it one poem after another.
I couldn’t tell you what quantum mechanics is. I also couldn’t tell you how I became an artist, but I know it just feels right and I wish Albert Einstein had been my friend.

Let’s not mince words. Some people have real talent while others have no business whatsoever walking onto a stage and attempting to make a rabbit disappear or sawing their pretty assistant in half.
I would say we need to become more comfortable calling a spade a spade, but I know I’d be called a racist because political correctness has completely quashed common sense as the Christian Right pulls rank on each and every one of us.
Someone needs to tell those bigots that Christ was born, died and rose again a Jew and that’s always the way the martyr crumbles when you dip him or her into a glass of white milk.

Another poem I will post onto FB because I like to torture myself. The writing keeps me grounded, but when it comes to hustling I haven’t a clue what that even means.
Scenes of Midnight Cowboy run through my head as I cross one more crowded intersection and learn to tolerate Jon Voight in Ray Donovan.
I need to lift myself out of the Cleveland poetry scene because it has become all too clear I am only doing myself more harm by running over and over again into the same old brick wall. I believe in my talent, but getting others to believe in it is easier said than done and I am starting to wonder if I am really fooling anyone as my intellect breeds tiny monsters and my eyes tear up from the very real loss of God.
I know I’m naïve and I know I’m too cynical for my own good, but taking all of these sleeping pills just sounds like such a bad idea and the thought of squirreling away some arsenic like my uncle did also makes no viable sense to me. When he finally blew his brains out with his father’s pistol near the RTA Rapid Transit tracks we had to call the city who arrived in Hazmat suits and gave everyone weird sideways glances like we were plotting the next 911.

Let’s not mince words. Let’s also not pretend we’re ever going to try again. Starting over is especially excruciating when your hands are tied behind someone else’s back and Cliff Huxtable turns out to be a serial rapist.
There is nothing more to do and no one left to rely upon. It’s not over until the fat lady bowls a perfect game and The Dude forgives us for all our transgressions by going completely silent and turning invisible in front of our Winnebago eyes.
Albert Einstein called me collect about thirty minutes ago. I knew it was him because of his thick German accent and the way he made everything sound so smart including the compliments he paid me as I began to blush and hung up on him by accident. Here’s another offering from my unsolicited brain. You don’t have to pay it any mind just please don’t ignore it so audaciously because these days I don’t feel like I have a friend in the world and even a complete stranger might actually come in handy when the going gets tough and the tough get brain cancer.

Charles Cicirella
9/20/15