Tuesday, June 30, 2020

Fruit Punch


Drinking fruit punch, thinking about kissing your ruby red lips.
Evie was laid-off today. Everything is sucking for a lot of people as the ignorant infect us with their Covid-19 righteous indignation and we’re lucky if a ventilator isn’t in all of our futures.
Watching 60 Minutes the other night and they were reporting on probiotics and they started to talk about them in baby formula and it got me thinking about Jonestown and how the U S of Asinine is its very own death cult.

I have to believe life in Scotland is more idyllic, but then I shake myself awake and remember even a picture’s beauty is only skin deep.
I can’t help but wonder if the ground is again opening up beneath me like it did when my mother passed away and if I shouldn’t be doing more to be certain I land on my feet.
Then I remind myself no one bought a warranty coming into this life and the only guarantee we got is at some point we’ll no longer exist in a physical material body.

I don’t even think about having sex anymore. What I’d really enjoy is social distancing with someone while watching All in the Family reruns and laughing at the same inappropriate moments.
Every day this virus shows us our true selves in a Petri dish of blood and saliva.
I don’t believe we’ll ever return to what we once accepted as normal because we’ve taken so many steps backwards and sideways these past few months it’s amazing any of us are left to tell the tale.
Starting to think this might be what finally does Florida in which would be a real shame because my father lives there and we’ve hardly rectified anything.

Charles Cicirella

Tuesday, June 23, 2020

Rainstorms in our minds. (For Kat)


I want to lasso the moon and give it to you on a gold platter.
There’s often too much happening for people to s-l-o-w down and respect the atomic mushroom cloud that has become their lives.
It’s one excuse after another and I wish when someone was mad at me they’d come clean and stop pitying me like Judy Garland in Judgment at Nuremberg.

I’m a torch poet which is vastly different than a torch singer. I don’t inject anything into my body because needles have always been a point of contention for me.
The point is I desire to view you when you’re exiting the bath and I’m losing my mind in the folds of your inked skin.
Sometimes I feel like you’re my only cheerleader left as my poetry goes the way of the dinosaurs and an asteroid shows us exactly who is boss.

I believe we were created at the time of the Big Bang when all the kids were doing the twist and rainstorms in our minds left us devoid of purpose or passion.
We hung on for a millennium or two because we knew lost souls like us would someday come back into vogue.
I need to kiss your Scottish mouth with everything I got before it gets too late and dawn mocks us for coming unprepared.

Doug is drinking more and more water which makes me feel so helpless and unstitched in these days of grape juice not from concentrate and prickly flowers you’re better off smelling with your eyes.
I love you and when I say that think of it as three words included in your lunchbox that becomes a sanctuary in that mailroom environment.
It’s one excuse after the next and before you know it all the black and white movies in existence cannot bring us back from the dead. The black hole had so much more color than I ever could have imagined as we held hands and the void drank us into infinity.

Charles Cicirella

Friday, June 19, 2020

Hello Bob Dylan!

I wasn't expecting this record. This ain't no lightweight! Bob’s sparring with himself on this record and he’s winning. There’s nothing left, but mummy bandages and shards of test tubes all over the killing floor. Dr. Frankenstein is in and he refuses to stand on ceremony for anyone including you. Did I think Bob could again find himself in the pocket? Honestly I never know what to think because as artists go there’s never any dust on his vestibule and his automobile is always rearing to go. How much longer can he last? I hope until I am dead and buried because his counsel over these past 36 years is invaluable like whiskey, women and the invisible wind. This album rocks, purrs and even barks if you listen really carefully as we cross the Rubicon. “I hate to tell you mister, but only dead men are free.”

Charles Cicirella

Canaan is out of the question.

Key West (Philosopher Pirate) - I really do hope that is the title because it's just funny - I don't know why, but it is funny like the sun's not yellow it's chicken. you know I am not one to sit there and attempt to "figure out" what a song means, but I do remember when I was 14 hearing that chicken line and just staring out into space, not trying to exactly figure out what it might mean, but more trying to somehow take it all in - all the paint - all the van Gogh grift that goes into it - the words - the letters - Machine Gun Kelly Howling Wolf Jewish Leprechaun diction - how grapefruit at the end of the rainbow isn't actualized grapefruit, but is instead hard worn holograms and sweaty, pinpointed lacerations jettisoning us to the center of a Gobstopper we don't truly want to reach the center of - leave the Tootsie Pop alone it didn't do anything to you - my point is I love the opaque abstract cubist ransacked way Bob gets to a point by doing everything to not get to the point -- I just remember sitting there (and I still do this to this very day because Bob's music is a ghost story - it's Jewish mysticism wrapped in bacon - give me your badge and gun you are now a disgraced cop and that's the blue archetype  you will now bear like a scarlet brand - like a chimney sweep who swallowed Mary Poppins whole) stunned into silence and I wasn't a quiet kid - he gets you to think and not think about any one thing - also the thickness of the paint - have you ever had the good fortune to experience a van Gogh without social distancing or glass (I have thankfully) it's like vinyl versus streaming turds - it's the shellac lifeblood running through our veins with a vengeance -- "It was the best acting I saw anybody do"

Charles Cicirella

Thursday, June 18, 2020

Thirty Lashes


I was examining my eyelashes in the mirror and what I came to realize is not everything can be rectified while just about anything can be shaved or sculpted to fit the narrative.
I stare out the window waiting for either God or Sidney Poitier when the best that appears is Tracy and Hepburn bickering like only they could.
It doesn’t look like the madness is going to stop anytime soon so perhaps its best we call it quits and not even attempt making anything better or at the very least tolerable for each other.

Thirty lashes because I said I was Spartacus. I figured everyone else was doing it so why not give it a go and see where notoriety and a slave rebellion get me.
In the middle of the night I’ll sometimes pretend I’m writing jokes for Jack Parr and that any problem can be solved with great Jewish deli and a bloody-minded resolve.
We swallow tyranny whole and shoot belligerence out of our asses like an imperfect storm of flatulence and stoicism.

I tend to seek out people who give me the benefit of the doubt especially when both our backs are up against the wall and the odds of either one of us surviving are slim to none.
I wanted to get next to you even before I saw your picture in the yearbook because I knew we were cut from the same cloth and that cloth was holy and irreversible.
I was applying hemorrhoid ointment on my rectum and it got me thinking how we’re all human and that any passing wind at any given moment could blow us apart like shivering timbers.

Charles Cicirella