Friday, October 21, 2016


Lost in the wetness of your Bob Newhart eyes
I think this poem is for you, but am choosing to keep that information even from myself
I’ve written some poetry for Darin Bulai, but he never seemed all that impressed so I moved on.
Never forget Detroit and how I made you cry in the bus station. I had a copy of a Fats Domino biography under my arm. The irony was lost on me until now.

Lost in the GPS coordinates of your open border thighs.
The bridge cost fifteen bucks, but sometimes you just have to grin and have someone else pay the money grubbing reaper.
Walking around Chinatown I felt truly insignificant and I liked it. Being American only got you the hard sell.
The hand-pulled noodles made a fool out of me and the pork is the best thing I’ve ever had in my mouth.

My poetry is like a raccoon in that it’s always wearing a mask and has small hands to get inside your trash cans.
I’ll never forget when you served up my head on that silver or was it a gold platter and how you danced like Salome right out of the cinematic frame.
I believe Leonard’s idea of a really good bowel movement has to do with sublime catharsis and the dying of a howling generation of low information invalids.
I have a headache, but that’s not news. The blood red caplets don’t seem to be doing the trick and getting my hands on anything stronger never seems to go my way.

Lost in the hotcakes, sausage and maple syrup of your bursting Mary Tyler Moore smile.
I thought this poem was for you, but now I’m really not sure.
I’ve written poetry for so many people it’s hard to keep track. Let’s just say I’ve taken alienation to a whole other level.
Never forget walking up the stairs behind you at King Books and as I looked at your butt in those blue corduroys thinking I’d never again see you naked and it made me sad then and still makes me sad now.

Charles Cicirella

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