Friday, January 29, 2016


At a loss for words.
Swallowed by a dinosaur.

At a loss for thought.
Followed a yellow butterfly and found Thought and Evolution hanging out.

We got in Ethyl.
Don’t recall what our mission was, but we listened to the Doors to and fro.

I used to think I could turn a phrase with the best of them.
Now I know better and have stopped trying so hard.

If it doesn’t come natural what’s the point?
My paintings got bumped when his mammoth canvasses arrived.

At a loss for decorum.
Good manners take too much damn energy.

If you have it in you go out back and shoot Old Yeller.
I’m going to stay inside where it’s safe to be a coward.

Charles Cicirella

Wednesday, January 27, 2016

I'm Baked (For Scott)

I’m baked.
Thinking about covering myself in sour cream and calling it a day.
I was wounded and then I recovered.
Twelve steps won’t help if your shoelaces are untied.

I’m lost somewhere in the atmosphere.
There’s no cell phone service out here.
Email was hacked.
Don’t bother sending a smoke signal.

Google Maps didn’t work and I ended up in Nova Scotia.
It might be time to call it quits or pay off the referee.
In twenty nine minutes I’ll veg out in front of the NBC Nightly News with Lester Holt.
Denial can be the best medicine when all other options are being searched for weapons.

I didn’t forget about you.
I just didn’t feel like getting back on the bus and going halfway across town to find you.
Let’s just call a spade a spade and wear aluminum foil hats to cover our hesitant pride.
Brooke Shields is the only La-Z-Boy I need so I can relax once and for all.

Charles Cicirella


I like when Bukowski refers to food as fuel
He’s got it right
When he kicked her repeatedly until she got off the couch he filled me with fear

I guess you’d call this free or blank verse
I don’t fucking know
I try not to give it much thought as long as the words keep advancing like potbelly stoves

They come
In drips, drabs and streams of unconsciousness
Maybe it was a Freudian slip or maybe it was improv at its most oedipal

Don’t forget why you’re here
Don’t forget when she turned you onto Brautigan
Bukowski went the distance even when words and alcohol pounded him senseless

Charles Cicirella

Tuesday, January 26, 2016

Thin White Lazarus

Listening to Bowie.
Cannot believe he’s dead.
Are we really stardust?
Is Ziggy now just another endnote?

We begin on script and before we know it we’re off book and off our heads.
And it was cold and it rained so I felt like an actor and what does that even mean and why does it speak so directly to me?
I’ve never been patient and I doubt I’ll ever be able to wait long enough to see how anything turns out or the reason we fell to Earth in the first place.
He was the Alpha and the Omega and he was the very best we had to offer when our backs were up against the wall and the stone had been rolled away by some other kind of thespian.

Listening to Bowie.
Ever since I heard he died I haven’t felt quite right. My stomach’s tied up into inescapable knots and I don’t feel like turning the page and focusing on some nonsensical bullshit.
He made us feel something. He gave us a reason to believe in diamond dogs in the rough and how scary monsters will sneak up on us when we least expect it.
He braved the storms of his own ghostlike renaissance and never once backed down from fighting for what is undeniably right and will eventually forsake each and every one of us when the fat lady sings and The Thin White Duke has had his last laugh.

Charles Cicirella