Monday, March 28, 2016

empty ghosts

no such thing
as empty ghosts
they’re all packing

when’s the last time
you revealed
your true self
and is your birthday suit

back from the cleaners

i feel drained
from all these forewarnings
of self doubt
but i will fight

until the cows
come home

and I remember you
like it was yesterday
in fact it was yesterday
and you never looked more


no such thing
as empty threats
all threats pack a punch
all pressures leave a mark

when’s the last time
you went against
your better judgement
and regretted nothing

i am worn out
from all these
chunky peanut butter
days and nights

and you’re not even
the last thing
on my mind
any longer

charles cicirella 3/28/16

There is a Cost (For Ted Kane & Russ Van Rooy)

There is a cost for everything won and everything lost.
There is a cost for those we have forsaken and those who have forsaken us.
There is a debt paid and a price waged on not owning up to the blood on our hands.

There’s a cost for patent disregard and for counting our chickens before they hatch.
There’s a cost for taking everything and everyone for granted.
And when we least expect it there will be a burying and a raising of the dead.

I was astonished at how you improve my words with the flick of a guitar string.
I was transfixed with how you lend my writing a newfound sense of determination.
And there will be a reward for everything you have done for me in this life.

There’s a rigmarole.
There’s an easing into the chaos.
And there are wars that will be battled and battles that must be endured.

There is a cost for directions misdirected and a reward when we pay it forward.
There is a cost for all this cadaverous theology laid out before us like the body electric.
There’s a moral imperative pushing us ever onward to the outer reaches of interspace.

Charles Cicirella

Sunday, March 27, 2016

I'm Losing It

Title keeps going through my head
Which can mean only one thing
A poem is coming and I best get out of the way

Resistance is futile when the muses decide it’s your turn to take out the trash
And the last time I was raked over the coals I rather enjoyed the humiliation
This is not the end, no it’s just the beginning and don’t worry we’ll make more once we run out of bullets and those little finger sandwiches

I’m losing it
Losing it over the big things that really aren’t all that important like not getting to go to a bunch of Bob Dylan shows this summer or going and not being front row
I keep trying to keep myself in check, but that’s mighty difficult when quicksand is the only place left to stand tall

I’ll write this poem and then I’ll send it to a friend who will record some music for it and make it even better than it originally was when I nearly died of exposure and the alphabet stopped making sense
I keep worrying what if my poetry is not up there on a whole other level than I remind myself it’s about actually doing the work and not about the celebrity that may someday arrive in a puff of secondhand smoke
We all daydream of better days to come; the secret is to not become a slave to those daydreams or allow the silver linings to get you in a chokehold and break more than just your spirit.

Charles Cicirella