Monday, February 29, 2016


I want to write another poem.
I can feel it in my bones.
And you were standing there.
It was like a Beatles song.
Except neither one of us was dancing.

Do you remember when you were on fire?
How no fire extinguisher could even begin to put you out?
They say to self-combust is not for the faint of heart.
And once I saw you go up in flames I knew exactly what they meant.
The flames licked your body like lemon ice and before long you were gone.

My sawbones are itching to get back into the fight.
Problem is I cannot find the ring and never was much for wrestling with my shirt off.
And you were a dream come true until you became the nightmare I could not shake.
We live inside our most hallowed of poignant memories until memory lane becomes A Nightmare on Elm Street.
I want to write another poem or at the very least give up the ghost before everything has been said and done and doing it no longer makes a fucking difference.

Charles Cicirella

Sunday, February 28, 2016

Destinations (For Bob)

I don’t know where the words come from, but they come all the same.
It doesn’t trouble me to write them down because I’ve been taking dictation for 32 years.
And when the four winds blow I’m often taken by surprise as it should be.

I once thought it a blessing or a curse, but I know better now as I change destinations and try to keep my mind right.
You were a precious angel or a hellhound on my trail. Either way you gave my life meaning before everything fell to pieces and the parts stopped making sense.
I don’t know if the code of the road applies here and for moral compasses I’ve given up believing in them quite some time ago.

Pick up the pencil and put the nub in your mouth. Sharpen the point with your canines and never forget you were once a savior to the masses before you abandoned love and went the way of changing partners.
It was in Akron, Ohio that I first saw you play. I’ll never forget the Queens of Rhythm and how you made that Rubber Bowl seem like a home away from home.
I have no idea why you stopped playing “Like A Rolling Stone” and so many other songs that sounded so righteous and resplendent to my ears, but I know that you know best as the tide rolls in and the California coastline continues to disappear.

I don’t know if I’ll ever get it right or if hustling is something I’ll ever get the hang of, but I’ll tell you this inspiration can and often does arrive like a thief in the night.
I wanted to break bread with you so bad I could taste it on my Jewish-Sicilian lips. Yes I wanted to get to know you on some whole other level, but the powers that be just wouldn’t let it be.
And I was walking down the desert highway and you pulled up alongside and asked if I needed a ride. I would have let you go by except I was in need of a friend who didn’t ask so many questions and I knew you were just what the doctor ordered when doctors still made house calls and the world was a much different and friendlier place.

Charles Cicirella

Saturday, February 20, 2016

The Times They Are A-Changin' – Columbia –1964

What if there was someone who could see what is happening in the trenches and on the outside of town, someone who could advance a new deal by stopping to think and offer something more than just empty-headed answers? What if there were an honest to God song and dance man who understood just what the people needed and instead of holding it over everyone like some ticking time bomb, that person instead shared this truth in the words of a song? A troubadour who refuses to be pacified or cowered by all the derelict promises and riotous threats and makes an actual difference by answering the call and doing his chosen work. This album changes the rules of the game by refusing to play the game, and if that doesn’t throw a wrench in the monkey works, then nothing ever will. It is all here: the so-called finger pointing songs as well as the most lonesome of love songs. It’s all here to pay attention to or to ignore. It has always been our choice and we don’t have to go it alone.

Charles Cicirella