Wednesday, August 31, 2016

I cannot be trusted.

While in the fetal position
I strangled my inner child.
I put my hands around its
Insufferable neck and choked
The life out of’ its crying jag
Of a little body.

And I know you never trusted me,
I knew it right from the very start.
It had everything to do with the
Way you looked at me so ruefully
Like I was a puzzle you could not
Quite figure out.

I’ve never been able to stomach the
Academic sludge passed off as poetry
Because words are more than just a way
To pad your low self-esteem. I’ve had it
Up to here with the posers who don’t understand
That suffering is not an art form and martyrdom
Is not a well-honed skill like karate or belly dancing.

My inner child kept telling me everything would be
Alright when nothing could have been further from
The God stained, bloody stool truth. And you didn’t
Help matters when you pretended a connection existed
When nothing but lies and more lies were present when
We spooned like two cartoon mutts.

I cannot be trusted. It’s been that way since being born in a fog of war.
And yes it’s true I’ve become that old man yelling at the neighborhood kids
To get off his lawn because I’ve become addicted to swallowing bitter pills.
And have grown tired of this game of denial I continue playing like Russian
Roulette except I’m not Johnny Ace and the bullets refuse to exit the chamber
And blow my brains all over the eggshell colored walls.

Charles Cicirella

Thursday, August 25, 2016

Word Salad (For Anna Husain)

The words sprang forth
Like they were locked away
In a crypt

The words bring life
To that which was dead
And unwilling to change

Old dogs and new tricks
An oxymoron if ever there
Was one

And this old grizzled dog
Is not willing to evolve
Paralysis has stunted
His growth

The words paraded passed
Like sexy commercials
At a drive-in

The words bring their friends
Because they know there is
Safety in numbers

And I wanted to surprise you
But I ran out of things to say
As my inspiration shifted down

And this young roaring lion
Is not willing to eat crow
Because the feathers always
Stick in his throat

The words tickle my nose
Like Vernors Ginger Soda
Before excess bubbles were

The words are on display
For all to revise, revile and

The words have lost none of
Their spark and will not go
Gentle into that good night.

Charles Cicirella

Friday, August 19, 2016

I love hard salami and that’s not a euphemism for something else. Not that there’s anything wrong with that.

Intimacy and I have never seen eye to eye.
I always discover myself moving away from it when it’s within sight.
After an orgasm it’s all over and cuddling with a significant or insignificant other is not even an option.

Orgasm is French for “little death” and it’s true I do find myself experiencing "the brief loss or weakening of consciousness."
And it’s all over, baby blue as my blue periods become bluer and exclamation points become farther and farther apart.
One sentence leads to the next and when I’m done serving time I promise to put this poem up on the front of the refrigerator so everyone can be proud of the meager accomplishment I’ve accomplished.

And the hard salami, provolone cheese, yellow mustard and white bread explode in my mouth like a symphony of carnage and calypso singing.
And I was never afraid of losing you because I knew you were as lost as I was when we stopped holding hands and crossed the street as strangers.
And an orgasm will fuck you up as your lion roars for as long as it takes to exhaust yourself and sleep for what you pray will only be a temporary death.

Charles Cicirella