Friday, November 23, 2018


I messed up like I always have a tendency doing
Treated her like all I was interested in was her body when nothing could have been further from the jeopardized truth
It was her heart and thoughts that truly took precedent, but I spoiled everything by being pushy and acting all off the hook

Let’s get something straight I burn through money like a filthy pervert with nothing else on his mind, but curves and desolation angels
I’ve got a bad habit of chortling like a pug that misses his mommy and refuses to listen to reason because he knows he’s only getting dog food for supper
Meen played me like a violin and that’s alright because she was finding her way while I already knew where I was going and how long it would take to reach maximum velocity

I’m not telling a fib, when she removed her dress and stood there in her birthday suit I nearly swallowed my tongue as I sent back the corned beef for being too lean
Let’s start at the beginning when Adam and Eve were not even on a first name basis and fig leaves covered more than their modesty
She’s a vision I’ll never quite get over because somethings cannot be unseen especially when The Song of Bernadette plays on an endless loop in your head like Korean Bingo

It’s no surprise I screwed up again
Breaking any and all promises I may have made because my ankle bracelet is made of twine and my probation officer is a hologram
She was pinned down by a hail of bullets and all I could do was skulk off like some rat bastard because I didn’t quite feel up to being a hero at that slippery-slope-moment in Proust lost time.

Charles Cicirella

Wednesday, November 21, 2018

Safety School

Clock’s ticking and I don’t give a shit
Soon I’ll be fifty and there’s nothing that can be done about it
When we resist Chronos all that happens is nothing and wrinkles still unstitch us

Sometimes we outlast the worst of conditions while other times the conditions eat our lunch, leaving us sad and hungry for past indiscretions
I was drafting you as you sped along like a racecar or unglued horse and it kept things light and breezy until we passed each other like two ships in the onyx, unclasped night
You never were much for crooning and that’s alright because my singing voice is for the birds and the birds are tone deaf and unimpressed by stable geniuses

Let’s hold hands as we jump off the unprepared cliff and accept once and for all you’re with someone else and significant others have never done much for my status as a lone poet in a forest of ne'er-do-wells
I can still see you rolled up in an Oriental rug like an uninvited casualty that never quite knew his or her place in this peanut butter and jelly routine of thingamabobs and doodads
You’re like the kitchen drawer that doesn’t quite fit and keeps pretending it’s not a catch-all for everything that’s unwilling to be so easily defined

Clock’s bleating like a constipated sheep that needs to either get on the pot or finally piss off
Soon the prospect of burning to a crisp won’t be so unpleasant to think about as remedial watches slow down to a stop and deplorable people learn once and for all why the right to vote is our nation’s only true cornerstone
When we resist Father Time it’s to our detriment because we only have so many seconds before the jig is up and we’re left dancing with death

Charles Cicirella

Blood and Carnage

Collateral damage voice
Singing to an invisible republic
Steam on the window proof of life

Resisting change for the birds
Sings ikons, breaking the mold endlessly
Looked for the words in a strange hotel

I’m not tired, but I am parched
Restless and unware of the passages of time
She woke him up with her guiltless eyes

Poets are a dime a dozen
Troubadours are rarer and weirder
He’s a surgeon whose precision is legendary

Tired of going through the door
Try exiting through the transom
Not everyone is built for goodbyes

Songs built one brick atop another
A reversal of fortune and deconstruction
An architect whose fountainhead is dipped in blood

The faithless will never survive
They lack the chutzpah to look their creator in the eye
Dylan’s a priest well versed in retribution and reimagining love

A voice of new mornings and resounding confidence
He scrambles the yellow eggs from a chicken little outspent
Moving still as the colors move through him endlessly

Charles Cicirella

"The sun's not yellow, it's chicken"

this ain't the reincarnation of Bob Dylan's whorehouse
Vincent wasn’t a cowardly lion or lazy dock worker
he was a seizure holding himself up against the 19th century sunlight

the sun’s not yellow, it’s lactose intolerant
and so are the prostitutes when you hand them part of your ear
familiarly known as Sien she didn’t care what was coming to her

she already knew how black it got, she had crows in her teeth
wheat cut down by Vincent’s scythe paint brush as he stared into the sun
blind, colors come thicker, which ones are our gods?

even a caged painter can change the world when everything’s burning around him, there goes the starlight again flickering rings
dreams of Saturn pummeled his memory like a pugilist from another century
we resist in vain when pushing against the Second Industrial Revolution

but it’s clear that Millet is waiting and he never lived on potatoes
gleaning is not for the birds as the peasants do their damnedest to stay alive
including praying, but those are deaf ears; did I mention I was bleeding?

it’s alright ma, I’m only tracing the back breaking words of others more dedicated to lifting themselves out of squalor
this thing got teeth, but the weeds got me and I want to stare at a wall and hope I remember all the cuts in pink elephants on parade
stucco saints remind me of a lackadaisical time when suicide wasn’t a calling and the clock on the wall didn’t mock me like Churchill at a Golden Corral

we occasionally stumble on truth out there in the colors, at least we might
at least we might occasionally stumble on truth when we dance with the yellow sunflower ghosts in the midday of another inspired breakthrough
ghosts burning in the white light of an interrupted brain, punctuation

marks prodding us on to live a life dipped in the mirrors of God, it’s heartbeat throbbing inside the ear the same way a bullet
ricochets for all to see as an unhealthy painter eats lead and hallucinates a cypress Christ
death for the night now brother
death death death

Jason Baldinger/Charles Cicirella

Wednesday, November 14, 2018

“I felt this expand in my mind as I took it all in.” (For Kat)

Unreasonable expectations plague us like Pip after Dickens gave him a good talking to
Hold me in your arms and never drop me in a ditch or dark passageway
Let’s be blunt we’ll never meet and if we do strings will be attached like cheese or mattress tags

I’ve discovered routines are the only thing holding me together like a Gutenberg binding or the spaghetti straps keeping your boobs from making an unexpected appearance
Your nonsensical fashion sense keeps everyone guessing and from jumping off the unleavened edge
I was a Jew lost in the hot desert while you emerged as an independent sovereign state in the Early Middle Ages

“Something there is about you that strikes a match in me”
Bob said that and I couldn’t agree more as Planet Waves surround  us like lethal jelly beans ready to be choked upon and shat out by a cosmic Easter Bunny
We put the needle down on the expectant vinyl as new worlds were delivered by troubadour doctors hell-bent on making certain everything comes out without a hitch or irksome hiccup

I believe in you
We’re no more strangers than the shadows floating passed you on the merry-go-rounds of your hallucinatory childhoods
Mary Poppins like Timothy Leary prescribed the medicine that would not only go down easy, but would greet you on the other side and welcome you with umbrellas raised and hippy vans gassed up and ready to go, go

To kill the time I considered masturbating or binge watching Homecoming, something about Julia Roberts that keeps me focused and hungering for more
I’d propose we stop all this dillydallying, but my whole life has been one big, ungreased pig of a dillydally and I don’t feel like fetching another apple for its porcine mouth
You’ve been pushing my Fisher-Price buttons ever since accepting my friend request on FB and it’s all good, especially when it’s veering off the Daytona race track toward Neverland

Charles Cicirella