Tuesday, November 22, 2016



I cannot channel the words.
I cannot channel much of anything.
The Little Engine That Could has up and went.
The little Jewish-Sicilian poet is coming up empty.

My memory is failing as I lie even to myself.
Denial doesn’t feel as good as I believed it once did.
Erased the chalkboard of memories and still feel nothing.
After school detention another deplorable distraction.

Listening and not retaining much of anything.
Thought I craved chocolate until it was in my mouth.
Thought I craved you until I was in your mouth.
Praying and still not sure either God or dog exist.

The music washes over me like barbed wire open mouth kisses.
I know what you’re thinking and it’s not true I’ve never been this desperate before.
I’m not French, hell I’m not even sure I’m really Sicilian, let’s stop all this double talk.
The voice of God rained down and before I knew it I was on the road heading to another joint.

Tired of going through the motions.
Sick of calling in sick and dry heaving into a porcelain bowl of exhausted dreams.
We can ramble if you promise the makeup sex will be worth my time and food stamps.
Let’s escape out back before the police show up and we have to explain where we were when the shit went down and all these bodies started piling up.

Charles Cicirella

Monday, November 14, 2016

a primal wound (for Leonard)


unmitigating circumstances

grizzled peach fuzz
a primal wound
a primordial crucifixion

Ochs hung himself
Shepard too
Hemingway shot himself thinking of Cuba
Leonard slipped away

everything burned, but his records
they just sat there asking what else you got
new skin folded back like a tulip resisting the occupation
a blue raincoat courting privilege and fighting back tears

you won’t come back
not this time
Flowers for Hitler just another merciless heartbreak
Beautiful Losers haunts us like a familiar fedora or lover’s unemotional screw

silent Buddhist monk preparing an invisible meal for his invisible master

Charles Cicirella

Saturday, November 12, 2016

Light of the Darkness


Writing these poems in the light of the darkness and I know nobody cares and I’ve gotten used to that and so much more.
It’s like you’re a leper and as your fingers and toes fall off and people see that your body is becoming disassembled they just look on because it’s not happening to them so why should they care?
And the advent of social media hasn’t made anything any better because though we may be more directly connected how many selfies or pictures of your big toe or your cat playing the piano do we really need to see before Rome again burns and the Coliseum again goes dark?

The light of the darkness has become my only trusted ally as I read yet another post from her about this or that dictator and if you disagree with her she’ll put you down like a nonsensical dog because the tyranny of her own words has become quite intoxicating.
From the first poem I wrote when I was fourteen years old I knew something was happening and it wasn’t to be taken for granted because cliché or not the pen is most definitely mightier than the sword and with great power comes an even greater responsibility.
The words pour from me like blood from a wound that will never stop bleeding no matter how much pressure is applied. I was a dying man from the second I sat down in front of my sister’s typewriter and for the first time felt comfortable in my own timeline.

Resistance is futile because we’re all going to head into the light sooner than later.
And the light of the darkness never bears false witness because what fun is there in that especially when your twelve best mates know Jesus personally.
Writing these poems under the covers with the help of a flashlight as the words like trail mix accompany me into the wilderness.

Charles Cicirella