Monday, August 27, 2018

Implosive (For Julia Haw)

So much silence my brain is doing back flips of delirium and frustrated exhaustion
Bad actors taking to the road pretending they’re poets when in actuality sixties Lost In Space episodes are better executed
Never forget first time I ate sushi off her exposed belly and how her taint reminded me of swollen sunsets and a Japanese moon

Our country has gone to hell in a Dorothy Gale hand basket as Malcolm Nance offers up a grin telling us he knows way more than he’s letting on because as super spies go he was as super as they come
It used to be the Republicans would just drive us into a ditch, now they’re siding with a KGB feckless thug because everyone wishes they’d been in The Sopranos and I cannot wait for the first time Manafort is delivered to the showers with more than just a juicy apple in his purty mouth
A five hundred dollar haircut doesn’t imbue you with superpowers as Ron Burgundy proves beyond the shadow of any doubt no matter how strange the bedfellows, the Dragnet facts will always scare you straight

I carve these poems from catheter and calligraphy believing they’re all that while the usual suspects stay silent because not only couldn’t their own poems keep up they have nothing new to share as their muses stand down and their disingenuous selves publish another Hot Pockets model’s confessions about doing the dirty deed with a Catholic Priest or defrocked donkey
The back surgery makes it quite difficult to fart and for shitting well let’s just say I’ve never had less fun crouching like a miser picking up a tarnished penny or an invisible child scraping by on booboos unkissed and unredeemed
The world’s not impressed by my Edward Scissorhands’ intellect and if things keep going the way they are before you know it I’ll be lost at sea wearing a life jacket two sizes to small capsized in a duck boat of my own flagrant and failing devising

Charles Cicirella

Saturday, August 25, 2018

Trying To Get Home (For Aretha Franklin)

Cannot believe it
Don’t want to discuss it
She’s gone

Some people have lives
Other people have deaths
I feel sorry for both of them

She lived like a queen or at least that’s what I need to believe
When riding our nightmares bareback nothing seems true during this massacre of sleep
You were a quiet child then you found the piano and the piano found you

She didn’t have audiences, she had congregations
Stood before them like a soul preacher whose only job was to immerse us in the blood
Gospel versus secular is never the point if you’re setting people free with your massive pipes and resurrection energy

Won’t accept it
Struggling every day since this songbird has gone radio silent
She’s gone and nothing will ever be the same again

Charles Cicirella

Monday, August 06, 2018


I live inside a box inside my head
It’s marked fragile, but no one pays it any mind
Be kind to yourself before you self-combust

Fishing off the pier with my imaginary dog Rufus Wainwright
Finishing school only made her an even more entitled, pampered bitch
Now she’s in the White House pretending she earns what she gets

There’s an electric fence around my most private of thoughts
I don’t have to hire bodyguards because no one has ever wanted anything to do with them
Poetry and pariah go hand in hand if you’re doing it right and the stripe down your back is multifaceted

Every single time she went down on me it was begrudgingly and I knew it from the way she wrinkled her nose and closed her Maid of the Mist eyes
There’s something to be said for forbidden love if it’s by the book and the book isn’t barely legal and stinking of teen spirit
I live inside a box marked insubstantial and it has to be that way otherwise nothing works and I’m left holding the bag yet again

Charles Cicirella

Saturday, August 04, 2018

Sex Ashes (For Julia Haw)

This is what I need
It’s everything and nothing
As my heartbeat veers in and out of red blooded traffic

She was a super cop or that’s what she led me to believe when she was on top and the weather outside begged to come inside like a vampire hopped up on Mad Magazines and Pasta e Fagioli
The very first time she painted in front of me she wore her best rags as both of our intentions were like craters carved from the center of the Earth or a lazy third eye waiting for redemption like a stoned and holy Bob Marley bobble head
She was so fit I only felt comfortable in my own skin when the lights were out and the radio was tuned into polka dotted music

This is where we begin with all of our nooks and crannies begging for real butter and a House of Cards that even Spacey cannot fold inside of as his stock plummets and his livelihood goes the way of another predator-dodo-bird-priest
I wonder where the appeal is in masturbating in front of an employee and why power drives these monsters into such fits of unsavory sex addiction
Does it even have to do with sex or is it really only about slapping down those who you believe are your inferior as your ego slices and dices you up into a wok of perversion and pedophilia

This poem has gone off the rails as I sneak into her studio and spy the phoenixes rise from her canvases like a murder of telephone operators hell-bent on calling out to our creator before it’s too late and the ashes of our sex get sucked up by another overzealous Elmer Gantry Dust Buster
Her portfolio like a razor to my heart took a bite out of the big apple while making damn certain her impressions first and last would never fail to steal my ravenous sight
Some people believe arts and crafts are a hobby we best get used to cozying up next to while the truly driven understand art is the only God we’ll ever actually know on a first name basis

Charles Cicirella

Sustenance (For Julia Haw)

Nakedness yet another modest means to the end of flowers and dark chocolates dipped in blood and motor oil
Stood there in her jeans knowing her perfect silhouette would draw onlookers and sketch out the beginnings of another imperfect storm
I bet watching her in front of the canvas is like watching her open a can of sardines except the fishy smell has been traded in for the rotting white noise of embittered tyranny and the pampered longing of another gilded lily newborn, swaddled in death’s grip of time blazing

The actual real artists are so very different than the dime a dozen Clydesdales that sell piss like beer and never accept the status quo for what it truly is, lost and forever stoned on heaps of lazy opioids
If you think her paintbrush is just another facsimile for a cock well then you’re clearly missing all of her most enlivened points of anti-matter because she has been beyond gender fluidity long before a Breakfast of Champions became an article of ridicule and Kilgore Trout was so much more than an anti-hero passing himself off as a hacking reminder of America the rustic and resigned
We can play word games until the salad is brown and weeping or we can pick up our crunchy croutons and go home, either way no one truly wins when the shirts have been scalped and the skins cannot remember where they parked their trophy wives

I desire to sit with Julia in a doughnut shop where the doughnuts still sweat red, white and blue equity and the coffee is sarcastic, but there are no notes of bitterness when swallowed and then later spit out simply because making a mess has always been the American way
I wish to taste all of her frozen bits and I’m not talking about Salinger’s frozen peas or The Catcher in the Rye who always intended to kill somebody when the coast was clear and the big police had had their fill of speed traps and A Raisin in the Sun hegemony
Biting off more than you can chew is always the way to go when the map’s coordinates only lead you down another blind passageway and the GPS is no longer speaking to you on account of you always spilling the beans at the most inopportune and enlightened of radicalized eras

Charles Cicirella