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

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