Thursday, December 21, 2017

Stand Your Ground

Words are consequences
The division of right and wrong is not partisan
Both sides of the aisle is cooked up spin and divided we fall

Loosen the screws
Prisons are full of parole violators
Drive into the crowd and claim religious intolerance

At some point might making right and determining policy needs to cease and desist
Our end game of the end always justifying the means doesn’t amount to a hill of brown or black beans
Social justice has been hung out to dry as we’re put back into chains and the truth has been sidelined by a man-child whose only plan of attack is distract, distract, distract

I want what’s right
You want what’s right
Or are we ready to simply settle for what’s convenient as we drive thru yet another Starbucks and get our fix of designer caffeine and Hail Mary innuendos?

Our word should mean more than just a Caesar salad and our inability to squarely look our own Foggy Bottom reflections in the bloodshot eyes
Why is it so tough for liberals to push back on conservatives? It’s most certainly not because the right has the left beat on the issues
I believe if we don’t stand our ground sooner than later we’re going to lose more than just our consciences in this fight between the haves and have nots

Are you willing to sell your country out for a few more votes?
The Republicans are and did
Are you willing to just look the other way as another human being is treated like they’ve no right to say anything when they’re manhandled or even worse raped into silence?
Are you just going to stand there and do nothing or even worse add your vote to a chorus of dissenting voices on not only the rule of law, but the rule of humanity in our closeted system of reprobates and soiled Bible salesmen?

Charles Cicirella

Tuesday, December 19, 2017

Rough and Tumble (For Joe Cohen)

We were in the same homeroom all through junior high and high school.
He was one of the popular kids. Me, I knew all of the popular kids, but I didn’t fit in anywhere. Not even with the other outcasts.
Joe had this way about him that always made you feel good about yourself and I believe that’s because he accepts people for who they are no ifs, ands or buts.

When I see him at the reunions I always feel like I’m meeting the Godfather of Mayfield Heights or wherever it is he resides because he carries himself with such an unmistakable confidence you know messing with him would be a big mistake.
I was surprised when he told me he reads my poetry that I post on FB, but that just goes to show you, you never know whose paying attention and what interests they may hold.
Going to watch another episode of The Walking Dead and try and get it out of my head that I may soon be on the street like an overzealous zombie or disabused Democrat.

The wind is breaking and there’s a good chance it will never get put back together again. Not if the deregulation continues and the climate deniers refuse to see the inconvenient truth through the burning trees.
Some people are probably wondering if this poem is about Joe Cohen, me or our screwed up politics that has us under siege and my answer is simply that this poem is about everything and nothing.
It’s about laying down a gauntlet or drawing a line in the sand or whatever metaphor makes sense to you as Joe and I catch up over lunch and for at least an hour or so I feel safe and like no one can touch me because Mr. Cohen has my back.

Charles Cicirella

Sunday, December 17, 2017

Am I Hot?

There’s more and more crust in my ears.
Probably because I am showering less and less.
I’ve been depressed since before the burning bush took residence in my head.

I remember when I was a kid not being able to push down the malaise covering me like Paddington’s orange marmalade.
Only trips to the library on my yellow Free Spirit ten speed did anything to lessen the fear and anxiety I was experiencing.
When I started to write at fourteen it was like I’d finally found a friend and didn’t feel so lost or uncomfortable in my own skin.

You want the truth?
You want to know if magic’s real and if wishes really do come true?
Watch me ride into Jerusalem on the back of an ass and never forget how easy it is to get lost in your own complex of martyrs and Minotaur’s.

My crotch smells like the cheese rotting in the fridge and I’m resistant to taking a shower because I don’t particularly like the water’s fingers touching my opaque skin.
I know I best drag myself into the bathroom no matter if there’s a door or not because bathing is a part of life like the Heimlich maneuver and five o’clock shadow.
It’s always been so much easier to write a poem than to do the day to day things we must do to stay human like laundry and finding gainful employment.

Even other poets don’t seem to get me and that’s okay because I’ve never much trusted the status quo or the academic sludge passed off as poetry.
I wonder if when Christ returns if he’ll have any time for me or if he’ll dismiss my chosen status and instead pick someone else to play on his basketball team.
My fifteen minutes of fame escape from my penis like Stormtroopers hell-bent on protecting the Death Star or at the very least making sure George Lucas is not disturbed.

There’s less and less skin being left in the game as high-ranking insiders decide even their own companies are no longer worth investing in.
We’re at a crossroads of cataclysmic proportions and even the Cowardly Lion can no longer protect us from ourselves.
If we’re not willing to face the absolute truth then what good are we as we continue to take God’s name in vain and become more and more comfortable with the yellow and blue flames?

Charles Cicirella

Saturday, December 16, 2017

Am I Dead?

I know I shouldn’t have to ask, but sometimes that which is obvious eludes me like a hard spanking or soft kiss.
The poetry stuffed inside my gut like Little Debbie Snack Cakes and sometimes it makes sense while most of the time I’m left hanging by the most tenuous of threads.
It’s not a sign of death, but oftentimes avoiding your deepest, darkest feelings will only leave you in limbo or Passaic, New Jersey.

I’m calling out to you like a harpy.
Like a Bettie Page pin-up who allowed the leopard to lick her pussy because she liked how the leopard changed its spots for the holidays.
I’m calling out to you from underneath the coffee table because I’m afraid to face all the burgeoning questions resting atop another unread copy of Vanity Fair or within the folds of your James Brown “Mother Popcorn” skin.

The Democrats have finally proven beyond the shadow of any doubt just how spineless they are as the Mad Hatter sits in the White House eating his curds and whey, shitting out more self-congratulatory tweets and poisoning America with an unabashed ignorance we’ve not seen in a century or more on Pennsylvania Avenue.
Let’s go the way of the Dreamers who if congress have their way will be deported before you can blink an eye or flick a booger off your pointed and pugnacious finger.
I wanted to stay inside where it was warm, but I knew if I didn’t go out into the streets and start to march I’d find myself questioning why I still even exist in this land of defamation and ridicule.

Are we already dead?
Are we quite sure we’ll have the upper hand when push comes to shove and shove decides to sneak across the border and become Canadian?
You want the biggest slice of the pie? Okay fine, but just keep in mind the karmic chickens that will eventually come home to roost and all the repercussions that will whip you like a slave in orbit once a not so silent minority has their final say.

Charles Cicirella

Am I Alive?

I know I shouldn’t have to ask, but sometimes it’s hard to tell the living from the dead.
The poetry pours from me like blood, semen, piss and shit.
It’s not a sign of life, but sometimes you just have to take what you can get.

Let’s lose ourselves down the rabbit hole.
Alice called and wants her looking glass back.
Jack the Ripper called and said thanks for not putting up too much of a fight.

The Republicans have finally proven beyond the shadow of any doubt party before country no matter what, no matter who gets dead.
It’s the five year anniversary of Sandy Hook. We mustn’t celebrate our inability or ineffectiveness to make a difference.
This goes triple for you President Obama who proved just how dangerous hope can be when used as a dowsing rod to locate a nation’s sweet spot and then exploit it for their own political means.

Are we alive?
Does it matter if we’re only normalizing our horror until the spilling of blood becomes our national pastime like the trafficking of children and the privatization of our morality?
Proof of life is overrated especially when the air is unbreathable, the water is undrinkable and you’re a ghost walking around in someone else’s skin.

Charles Cicirella

Sunday, December 03, 2017


Ready to grow.
Moon pours through the trees.
Cat pounces on dead tortoise.

A slave to the art.
Justifications and rationales do not exist.
There is no glass. All therapists are full of shit.

Printing innards keeps me grounded and focused on what’s possible.
When she posts about assembling chapbooks my loins start to quiver and shake.
A means to an end doesn’t mean a damn thing if you’re not willing to commiserate.

Ready to get up and go.
Ready to go the distance no matter pratfalls or syrupy endings.
I desire to bring out the best in you by sharing only the best parts of myself.

Charles Eric Cicirella