Wednesday, August 19, 2020


I wonder what it will take for someone to comment on one of my poems.
There’s a group of poets here in Cleveland that I don’t get along with and I’ve had to accept that and move on, but what about all the other poets I’ve known since Columbus or even before that, where are all these people and why do I feel like I’m by myself and no one wants to invite me to their party or come to mine?
Yes, I’m feeling sorry for myself, but there is nothing wrong with that from time to time because branches have a tendency to break, especially when too much weight is placed on their outer limbs.

Critiques are a dime a dozen and those who burn hot are too often left out in the cold as the fires of forgetfulness chastise you for being too full of yourself.
Sometimes I want to crawl up inside my anal cavity and forget I ever signed up for this passion play, but then I remind myself doing the work is the only way to make it through and that this is even truer when the The Tokyo-Montana Express has your name on it.
He filled his gun with bullets and his belly with hamburgers then he checked out because checking in wasn’t getting him anywhere fast and only made him feel sadder and more alone.

I wonder what it will take for someone to pat me on the head and say good dog. Of course I don’t really want that kind of faint praise because bubbles like that always have a tendency to burst right at the most inopportune of moments.
Isn’t God nothing and no one and isn’t a crown chakra just another crown of thorns resisting pregnant pauses like Sophie’s Choice?
I waited in the darkhouse for the Creative Director and you because I knew I could fall into your arms when everything stopped making sense.

My poetry is the dark horse that will never win the Kentucky Derby and no, I don’t smile when I read my poetry or at any other time because when I was in elementary school and smiled one time for picture day my mother traumatized me by making fun of that frozen, vomitus grin.
I wonder if Jim was the last true counterpart I’ll ever experience up close and personal.
Our intensities joined forces and like a wrecking ball took no prisoners as we demolished expectations and exposed fear for the little twat that it is.

Charles Cicirella

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