Saturday, October 31, 2015

My Fingers Reek of Reefer (For Juliet & Klute)

Tear it all down.
In this poem I promise not to objectify a soul living or dead.
In this poem I’ll do my best to stay on topic once I figure out what that topic is.
Leave your ego and edible panties at the door.

I remember when you didn’t need me anymore.
Truth be told no one ever needs another person and nothing could be truer when it came to our sickly relationship. If it could even be called a relationship.
The body lay on the cold, unforgiving concrete waiting for a lover or stranger to recognize who it once pretended to be.
I remember when I knocked on your door and you answered with teeth bared.

My fingers reek of reefer, ass, and the inability to forge ahead with a plan that doesn’t resemble the skeletal bones of another wasted life cowering beneath the suicide tree.
I am a parser of words and it’s not because I am a writer or a poet or because I play a movie director in my free time. I am a parser of words because sometimes the only option we have left is to pick up the gauntlet and Raise High the Roof Beam, Carpenters before it’s too fucking late.
My pigeon fingers want to trace the contours of your sleeping body underneath the quilt your grandma knitted for you during her chemo treatments.
Tear it all down and replace it with something that won’t spit in your eye when you say I love you.

Charles Cicirella

Tuesday, October 27, 2015

“When your mother sends back all your invitations.”

My friend says he fears death.
I believe he fears life.
Creativity can brand you.
Make you its little bitch and before you know it you’re breathing fire and rolling two hundred miles per hour through the decades like a dervish or horse whisperer.

What happens when forty nine years later the words are not flowing like they once did?
What happens when “how does it feel” no longer resonates and the Shadows In The Dark are making you question what you once believed was written in “Rocks And Gravel?”
What happens when "The Dark End of the Street" and a dark night of the soul unite and no one is able to reach you?
What happens when the bubble you’ve existed in for so long appears ready to burst and you’re afraid to seek heavenly aid because you don’t want to be that poor little boy who cried wolf?

My friend says you fear death.
I believe you fear life and all the simple contradictions going along with it.
You turned music and the culture inside out then you got out of Dodge and almost died seeking shelter beneath a Nashville Skyline New Morning.
There’s Blood On The Tracks as you paint Another Self Portrait of a man you once met in a crowded room of faceless strangers. He wasn’t Mr. Jones or Dr. Filth. No, he was actually you in a different kind of guise and no one was the wiser when you pulled the plug and a “Brave New World” went completely dark.

Charles Cicirella

A Sense of Urgency

I feel it.
Do you?
Does it wash over you like blood and fury?

Let’s quit cold turkey.
Let’s do something different.
Let’s flip off the status quo and let our freak flags fly like big hairy kites in the cornflower blue skies.

I found it?
Did you?
Did it sneak up behind you and make your heart skip a beat?

I so badly wanted to stick my finger or penis inside of her but she said we didn’t know each other well enough and that it probably wouldn’t be a very good idea.
I asked her if she felt the same sense of urgency that I felt and she responded by looking deeply into my fistful of dollar eyes as she switched back on Turner Classic Movies.
We watched Mean Streets, Taxi Driver and Sunset Boulevard then we made love like two ravenous sharks in desperate need of a dolphin or sea lion.

I decided against it.
Either the world isn’t ready for me or I’m not ready for the world so I decided to call it a day and crawl back into my hermit crab shell.
Let’s exist beyond our meager means because I’m tired of eating only vanilla ice-cream and riding on Merry-Go-Rounds that do nothing except go around in circles.

Charles Cicirella