My review of Juliet Cook's NEW poetry chapbook - RED DEMOLITION -

Glitter Witch Repellant

Crack open this plethora of poems before they spoil. Before these rancid meat popsicles mutate into something even less salvageable and more worthy of contempt. You don’t read Juliet’s poems; no instead you shoot them into your temporal lobe and pray you don’t hemorrhage or worse yet survive this bloodletting. These poems speak to you with their twisted, sworn to secrecy mouths and soulless pinprick eyes. There is so much being dredged up that letting yourself off the hook is no longer an option as you turn another swollen page and die a little more inside. Snap open this murder of poems before you’re all red and swollen like a pimple or prick ready to pop or crackle like sugary cereal with an axe to grind. If you’ve ever wondered what collateral damage looks like up close and personal go and get yourself a copy of Red Demolition and remember you were warned. And remember when you were burned at the stake.

Charles Cicirella

9/5/14

published by Shirt Pocket Press and available for a mere six bucks here -  

http://shirtpocketpress.wordpress.com/catalog/

Third Eye Desolation

(For Dan Klute)

There's blood in the streets; it's up to my ankles.
Blood in the streets; it's up to my knee.
And I do not care what anyone says because The Doors are not just some band you listen to during your adolescence. In fact I still listen to them because they speak the truth through the blues, reds, and sonic booms.

I am waiting for the phone to ring.
I am awaiting another muse, another queen of the highway, another third, fourth, or fifth second coming to arrive and move these chess pieces around the board.
I had money, yeah, and I had none, but I was never so broke that I couldn’t buy a ticket to your show.

We’re led to believe good things come to those who wait, and if you believe that, I have a timeshare to sell you that is on the dark side of the moon.
Third eye desolation is a plague, and if you don’t get what I’m saying, don’t sweat it because you’ll soon be dead or filthy rich and living on an island with someone who you love to despise.
The cars hiss by my window like the waves down on the beach. We’re all being led to slaughter with every single Facebook message we post and smartphone app we download.

Blood in the streets runs a river of sadness.
Blood in the streets is up to my thigh.
And I do not care what anyone says because James Douglas Morrison was an American poet who slithered through the LA streets like a lizard in need of alcohol and a shaman who would listen to his moonlight driven prayers for a sacred kind of sweet desolation.

Charles Cicirella
9/3/14

No More Laughter

(For Robin Williams)

He hung himself.

Sat in a chair with a pocket knife and made some superficial cuts to the inside of his left wrist.

Was he out of punchlines?

While making so many others happy, on the inside was he screaming for help?

In the Dairy Queen picture he looked so gaunt and frail.

Were all the many voices in his head overcrowding and overwhelming any hope for inner peace?

Improvising on stage without a net is hard enough.

Improvising in life without a net is a whole other tin cylinder of napalm.

He stood up there on stage conducting a symphony of jokes with his unstoppable energy.

He stood in front of us showing just how beautiful and human a court jester can be.

I have a feeling he was tired of making promises to himself he knew he would not keep.

I have a feeling he was sick and tired of feeling so dead inside while there was so much life all around him that he could not afford to let in.

He hung himself.

In a room all by himself he made a choice that ended his life and I pray also ended his pain.

Charles Cicirella

8/17/14

I Like To Watch

(For Robin Williams)

I am watching porn, but I’m not paying attention.

I cannot believe he’s gone, but there are a lot of things I cannot believe that I still somehow must learn to accept.

I’m thinking of another period when an eye for an eye, and a tooth for a tooth actually meant more than just beating yourself up and tearing yourself down.

I pretend I’m happy.

I know it’s a dangerous pastime, but I’ve always lived on the edge, especially when denial is the only drug that makes any honest to God sense.

Go ahead tell me I’m full of shit. I am used to your disapproval and unhappiness.

There’s a bridge to nowhere and a bridge to somewhere, and someday maybe I’ll discover what exists in-between.

I was naïve enough to believe poetry would save me, but at forty five I am starting to understand nothing will save any one of us and all we’re doing is putting off the inevitable.

I like to stand back and watch.

I like to take a leap of faith every decade or so.

I wouldn’t even mind falling in love if it lasted longer than the time it takes to clean up the mess.

Stop telling me I’ll never change.

I already have enough white noise in my head, and you’re not helping with all your status quo bullshit and bad energy.

I am finding it hard to accept he decided to go, but who can really blame him when the laughter and the applause were no longer doing the trick and all he was left with was the silence.

Charles Cicirella

8/13/2014

Number Twelve

I’m not awake.

I’m sleeping.

I’m not alive.

I’m dying.

I remember walking down the wood paneled hallway.

I remember feeling like I was drunk.

I remember the ghosts crowding me.

We’re not present.

We’re past.

We’re not star artists.

We’re stand-ins.

I remember you walking toward me.

I remember feeling like I was happy.

I remember you laughing at my jokes.

This may be a success or it may be a failure.

Inspiration comes in drips and drabs.

Sometimes we’re hell-bent on a recovery, other times we just want to pass the test.

Charles Cicirella

8/8/14

Number Eleven

I desire to write another poem.

I can feel it on the tip of my fingers and tongue.

I hope it’s not a false alarm.

It’s five in the morning.

My cell phone hasn’t rung in decades.

No one ever calls because they know I’ll just end up cutting them off.

This is number eleven.

I thought I might possibly be on a roll.

Thing is I may have jumped the gun or worse yet swallowed the barrel and pulled the trigger.

I wonder if I’ll ever experience physical intimacy again.

I don’t even mean sex or whatever the equivalent of sex is in the twenty-first century.

I’d settle for holding hands and maybe sliding into first by the end of the date.

Soon I will lie down on a sleeping bag on my mother’s floor and close my eyes.

When I wake up it will be around three in the afternoon and I’ll have accomplished nothing.

Truth is I don’t like guns and even if I owned one I wouldn’t be able to afford the bullets.

Charles Cicirella

8/8/14

Number Ten

Out live

Out last

Out do

Wear down fate by looking fear squarely in the eye.

Replenish happiness with mystical assurances from a benevolent creator.

Replenish hope with blessed charity.

Insource

Inroads

Insanity

Clearly your pact made all the difference with the talent you’ve been crowned with.

Clearly the crossroads means more to you than just a place to sell your soul.

Clearly when daylight comes you’re already heading for the next staging ground.

We’re going up around the bend.

We’re going to make amends before another innocent bystander is found guiltless and executed for someone else’s goodness.

We’re going to break the speed of sound by playing fucking loud and never once allowing Judas to do our dirty work for us.

Charles Cicirella

8/6/14

Enigma

Trust the words will come.

Sometimes like a crossword puzzle.

Other times like a threat or left handed compliment.

Do you really eat apples like they’re going out of style?

Do you know when you try and hide you stick out like a sore thumb?

Do you still yearn to burn some of your fans alive?

Trust the desire has not dried up.

Sometimes like a wishing well in need of coins or proper repair.

Other times like a camel passing through the eye of a needle.

Do you believe in magic and the synchronicity oftentimes conquering it?

Do you live in a roomful of mirrors and understand why Jimi just had to go?

Do you still think about John being shot and how some things are not predetermined?

Trust the silence will ferry you across the water.

Trust the noise will bring you closer to God and farther away from another changing of the guards.

Trust that this circus you’ve encased yourself inside will shelter you from the storm as long as you’re willing to walk the line.

Enigmas are a dime a dozen in this world we are passing through.

Enigmas have their very own covenant once they’ve made their prayers known and let up on the gas.

Enigmas are a story unto themselves never playing catch up or make believe in this world that can’t stand long once the flames have been snuffed out.

Charles Cicirella

8/6/2014

Embark

Rip off the skin, not only the scab.

Remove the person, not only the mask.

Recover from life, not only the addiction.

A grand piano needs to be climbed inside not just tinkered with.

Playing for time oftentimes only unwinds the clock.

Play your greatest misses, not just the hits.

We pray for a miracle when everyday happenstance is a blessing all its own.

We wish for shit until our hands are covered in it, and then we bitch about our dire circumstances.

We travel many a mile believing there is dignity in distancing ourselves from the mother ship when all we’re really doing is running in place, out of step and out of time.

I’m not telling you anything you don’t already know.

Hell, I’m not even a writer. Just read my rejection slips, keeping in mind we’re all born with a crossroads to ultimately face and then do away with.

The writing was on the wall and then it was tattooed onto her back and still she was uninteresting and lacked any honest to God subtext.

Break apart not only attempting hold everything together, but making an effort to become realized and not just preconceived or predisposed.

Break down not only through the premise of this play on articulated words and whatnot.

Break from conventional wisdom, finally understanding that the winds that tore you to shreds in Chicago are the very same winds that someday will put you back together again.

Charles Cicirella

8/4/14

Disembark

We hug human husks.

We hug tree trunks.

We hug celestial bodies.

Be a pioneer and go it alone - I dare you.

Be a patron saint and try and make no mistakes - I double-dog-dare you.

Be a purveyor of human souls and never forget someone else created you - I triple-dog-dare you.

You’re not James Bond.

You’re not Mother Teresa or Mahatma Gandhi.

You’re not the be all and end all of everything and everyone.

We hug naked truths in our undiagnosed states of unseeing.

We hug burly, bearded teamsters in our uninformed states of class warfare.

We hug our children with dirty hands and vulgar mouths in plain view of God Almighty.

Be an iconoclast and go the distance before you’re dead and buried in an unvisited grave.

Be a rebel without a prenup and pull out all the stops before you’re burned and your ashes are left blowing in the chilly winds.

Be an actual person with thoughts, feelings and opinions of your own before it’s too late and your existence is rubbed out like one more unsupervised adolescent prank.

We drove by the corn, and it was dead.

We drove by the church, and it was closed for repairs.

We drove off the cliff and never reached a bottom or actual conclusion we could accept.

You’re not Mickey or Minnie Mouse.

You’re not a purple dinosaur.

You’re not the last bastion of hope for humankind even though you may believe otherwise.

We hug empty vessels.

We hug pipes and drums.

We hug billions upon billions of stars to our sunken treasure chests and are never the wiser.

Charles Cicirella

8/2/14

Mother Revisited

(For Joni Soule)

Silence breaking.

Suffering this life.

She paints and dies.

She lives and cries.

We break apart.

We fall like dominoes into an unmarked grave.

I love her.

But that does not change anything.

I love her.

And that does mean something.

I heard her crying.

She was in the other room, 1385 miles away.

I have this bad habit of constantly interrupting her when we’re on the phone.

I don’t know if I’ll ever learn to shut up and listen.

Yes we’re artists.

And no there is nothing even the least little bit romantic about it.

She paints, but I honestly don’t know if that sets her free.

She lives and I honestly am not sure what any of this means.

She is not silent.

Pay attention and you will hear her asking for help.

Charles Cicirella

7/23/14

Rib Meat

I’ve fallen down.

Fallen apart.

Fallen away.

I spat in the eye of inspiration, and inspiration will have none of it.

I’m going to eat some chicken nuggets even though I know they don’t treat chicken right.

My muse is a ninja assassin, and I am a pacifist who believes to turn the other cheek is tantamount to murder.

I’m wrestling past transgressions.

I’m sitting on the floor, pressing down the keys as the words appear before me wanton and without a sexual orientation.

I’m going mad as I consider watching Noah and pretending Russell Crowe is still a good actor.

The poetry comes, and the poetry goes.

I’ve used a pencil, pen, typewriter, word processor and now a laptop.

This line of work is not for the squeamish because there is no work to be had, and if you have a heart you’re sure to end up vacant, numb and completely isolated.

I don’t envy Icarus one bit.

I don’t pretend to be anything but a redhead with freckles who burns too easily in the sun.

I don’t like strawberries, and I’m not sure I’d know what to do with a plate of crab legs if they were set down in front of me.

I had a friend who was a guitar-exorcist.

He was the only person who got me, and I believe that’s because he never listened to my whining or put up with my bullshit.

I had a friend who was a prophet of the heart like Leonard Cohen and Bob Dylan.

I have fallen down a black hole.

I’ve fallen down the rabbit hole.

I am through pretending as I accept that sleep may be the most addictive drug of all.

Charles Cicirella

7/27/14

Drenched

Break open your heart.

Leave the remnants on the bar.

Leave what remains stapled to the ceiling.

These words don’t come easy.

Most of the time these words don’t come at all.

And when they do I’m left with nothing to say.

The rain is cold on my face.

And I know I should go inside and get a coat.

But I swear the only absolution I’ve ever experienced is when drenched from head to toe, windows rolled down, radio turned up to eleven.

You think it’s easy.

You think extracting blood from stone is an everyday miracle.

You think God’s really in the details.

I’m here to tell you hustling does no one no good.

And who you know only brings you closer to the devil.

I’m here to tell you the beast within is our only salvation.

Break open your skull.

Leave the pieces in the glove compartment of the Crown Vic idling out back.

Leave what remains stapled to the fucking sky.

Charles Cicirella

7/21/2014

These Words

These words are lumberjacks, and I intend to cut down all these trees in my path.

These words are serial killers, and I intend to kill anyone who veers off the path.

These words are jumping jacks, and I intend to hold onto these childish things for as long as they preserve a path toward righteous indignation. 

We wish, stumble and crash.

We plot, scheme and pray.

We win, lose and draw.

These words are blanket reminders of what once was, long before God jumped ship and Christ was handed a raw deal.

These words are burnt offerings from another time and place when the past, present and future were locked in the same cell and a skeleton key was swallowed by a great whale.

These words are beta blockers keeping you alive just long enough to face the inconvenient truth that no one here gets out alive.

We piss, moan and vent.

We howl, cackle and roar.

We descend, drop away, and go downhill.

These words are stowaways, and I intend to make a break for it as soon as I find my sea legs.

These words are coordinates on a map and I intend to pinpoint Shangri-La before I am consumed by all these lost horizons.

These words are bullet points in a PowerPoint presentation impressing no one and getting me no further than the next fork in the road.

Charles Cicirella

7/19/14

Killing Floor

4:18 AM

Cut through rabble

Cutout distillation

4:20 AM

Make a move

Any move will do

4:20 AM

Positive reinforcement

First impressions shatterproof

4:21 AM

Bluesman

Wicked witch doctor

4:22 AM

Cut down broccoli treetops

Cutting repartee

4:24 AM

Negative assertions

Trained assassin

4:27 AM

Song and dance man

Photosynthesis

Charles Eric Cicirella

7/10/2014

Another Poem About Bob Dylan

I hear him pleading

Pleading like an American

Pleading like a human stain

I hear his reckless chitter-chatter

And I am blinded

Blinded by his supernova sensibilities

Blinded by his intellect burning a hole in the sun

I am given new eyes to see when he punctures the skyway

Another train car smoking down the tracks

Another troubadour freed from their Houdini chains

Another Gemini trickster spoiled by the duality of their sins

This junkyard medicine deserves a special place in Heaven

I was born a poet and someday I’ll surely die a poet - what’s it to you

Take me for a trip upon your magic swirling ship

I’m ready to join this circus and get the hell out of Dodge.

Charles Eric Cicirella

7/6/2014

Neutral

None of us are blameless.

Guilt is in the eye of the beholder.

I don’t feel like mincing words.

I’m not in the mood to barter or to dicker.

You could pour me a drink, but alcohol does nothing for me.

You could tell me some lies, but I would more than likely fall asleep.

There is nothing impressive or imposing about you.

I don’t care if you are clean and sober.

Living in the future is overrated and for the overextended.

Living in the past is for cowards and the disinclined.

How many times must you be proven wrong?

How much blood must be spilled before you accept the writing on the wall as fact not fiction?

Put on the brakes.

Pull over to the side of the road.

I’m going to be sick.

I’ve had enough and the fetal position is my only refuge.

Charles Cicirella

Teacher

(For Siri)

I am wide open.

Ready to learn.

Ready to discover new things.

Trust yourself.

Turn intuition inward.

Turn away from closed hearts and minds.

You are a blossoming flower.

The Garden of Eden has nothing on you.

The Serpent just another distraction hell-bent on a revisionist history.

I’m ready to burn forward.

My consciousness a rocket ship bursting through the atmosphere.

My subconscious knocked out and loaded in the naked night.

Sometimes I am brimming with self-confidence.

Other times I find it near impossible to hold my head up high.

Either way I am still going to make it through because that is what survivors do no matter the muck we oftentimes find ourselves crawling through.

You are a treasure trove of otherworldly delights.

A breath of the freshest and purest oxygen known to woman and man alike.

And the Serpent is just another pesky intruder whose time is nearly extinguished as a slow, slow train comes up around the bend.

Charles Cicirella

4/24/2014

They Say (Truth and Consequences)

They say I’m a poet

They say I’m a Jew

Don’t even know who they are.

We pretend to change partners

We pretend to accept the breaking news

Not sure why I called you up in the first place.

They say this and they say that

They say nothing at all with their mouths full of pollution

And whoever they are I am caring less and less these days.

This isn’t a poem or some misbegotten prophecy

They say we’re the chosen and I say show me the contract signed in blood

I’ve never believed in the small print, but that does not mean it’s any less binding.

They say he was a teacher

They say he was an outlaw

And I know exactly who they mean and why shooting stars are so important to our beleaguered belief systems.

Charles Cicirella

3/10/2014

Siri

Mystery

Mysterious

Mischievous

Ancient

New soul

Expert witness

We pop

Crackle

Snap

Dancer

Electric

Brain food

I am

We are

United

Whimsical

Capricious

Perfect catch

Long distance runner

Star sprinter

Meerkat purring

Basking in the sun

I’ve swallowed the moon

Promised Land beckons...

Charles Eric Cicirella

12/16/13

Resurgence

why can’t they hear it

are they deaf? blind?

why are so many

resistant to change?

I love the seasons you

pass through like a

private investigator

rummaging through

old steamer trunks

looking for a phone

number that was

written on the back

of a matchstick

I remember Casablanca

Bob and I remember

Dooley Wilson singing,

singing for you like

you were Humphrey Bogart

I know you wanted to be him

stranded in some petrified forest

making time with the waitresses

like they actually understood you

and knew what it meant to be a legend

and not give a shit

you have always told us where

it was at and you still are telling us

why it is important to take a stand

because it’s not dark yet, but it’s

getting there and I’m afraid to let go

Bob I’m afraid you won’t remember

how we sheltered each other from the

impossible storms in both our imaginative

and poetic visions; how we both agreed

Vincent knew what he was up against

and that if he hadn’t taken his life we would

not be as acquainted with our own desires nor

would we give so much of a damn

the paint pulls us in as we turn our backs on

pressure cooker romance and all the self-medicated

responses she attempted before I convinced her

it’s no good being a victim when your back is

up against the wall anyhow and anyway you

slice it you are still going to have to enter the

eye of the storm before it is too late and all

the usual suspects are rounded up and later

dispensed with because every one of them

had a foolproof alibi, everyone but you Bob

your alibi was almost unbelievable in all its

deliberate and desperate fury

I wish we could shield each other from contempt

and I wish so much more was understood without

words or gestures of faith that faithless pedestrians

move through like ghosts with no fixed destination …

Charles Cicirella 5.6.03 (For Bob Dylan)

DYLAN

I was fourteen years old

Had an old beat up vinyl copy

Of Highway 61 Revisited from the library

I can remember the first time I attempted

Playing it and how the foreign sounds pouring

From the speakers pushed me down

Beneath subterranean landscapes

Six months later I revisited that same copy of

Highway 61 now long over-due, this time though

The foreign sounds did not seem so foreign

Matter a’ fact it was the only thing I discovered

Myself relating to

From this moment on nothing has spoken louder

Or clearer or truer, from this moment on The Doors

And The Beatles just would not do

I needed an edge that could redefine my boundaries

I sought an oblivion that desired to be consumed

And a sharp intellect that left phonies Blowin’ In The

Wind

Dylan opened a door to my subconscious long boarded

Up by the mongrel dogs who teach and this “Equality,”

He spoke of I did not need to completely comprehend

Because he has this revolutionary way of

Bringing it all back home

These days when I discover myself seeking solace or communion

Or whatever gets me through the night, these days when nothing

Makes much sense I turn toward his voice and the compassion

And joy made real by this myth, and this song and dance man.

Charles Cicirella 3:01 PM 5.22.2002

Commissioned by Ron House to be read at Used Kid’s Records

For Bob Dylan’s 61rst. B-Day!

WILCO!

(For Dan Gallows)

Dan Klute

What a hoot

Gets it right down to his Blue Suede shoes

Dan Klute

What a hoot

He’s the cat’s pajamas of drivers and understands what it means to change lanes without restraint

Dan Klute

What a hoot

He brings earnestness to the word earnest in this twenty first century of divine decrepitude

Dan Klute

What a hoot

No one here gets out alive except for those chosen few who do not worry themselves over such things as death and the sins of deadly omission

Dan Klute

What a hoot

Let’s leave the leavers and get what has always been ours for the taking!

Charles Cicirella

11/25/2013

Music Box

(For Molly Andrews)

We begin wrestling in the mud like idiot savants and adolescent Gods. And nothing matters until the page is turned and the songbook is filled with stardust.

She introduced me to a Gospel Train when playing the autoharp for us on McMillen Ave. It was the year of who knows when and I am a better man for everything that was created and destroyed in those misplaced and unidentified times.

We end wrestling with the mythos of resurrection like wise old fools and hungry forsaken devils. And everything makes a difference when we focus on the breath of life existing inside of us.

Molly Andrews is a harmonic convergence whose birth keeps us all eternally young and infinitely foolish.

Charles Cicirella

8/7/2013

Nocturne

(For Veronica)

I am lost in her music.

I yearn to get lost in her hard rain.
I wished upon a star and her eyes appeared open and wanting.

I am found in her grace.

I am frozen in space, the Earth’s gravitational pull refuses to pay any attention to me.
I positioned myself as a Romeo and fell as flat as the Earth was once believed to be.

We must forge ahead.

We must adapt to changing conditions because evolution will not wait for us to catch up.
We must see through remnants of lost love and never forget that soul mates do exist even though they may not be all that usual in these unusual days and nights.

I desire to be in the same room with her the next time her heart dances upon the keys.

I long to hold her turbine body as she sets the wheels in motion, ultimately setting us both free.
I wished upon a star and she appeared before me peaceful and on fire like Joan of Arc.

Charles Cicirella

10/11/2013

This

(For Rick Polhamus)

This is a new beginning because I know you understand what is meant by a new beginning.

This is never ending because I know you understand what is meant by something that never ends.
And when everything began making sense is the precise moment the writing on the wall vanished.
And when nothing any longer makes a lick of sense, that is when we must get our hands dirty and completely eradicate the ghosts in our rolling stone hearts.

I was brave and not afraid to admit it until realizing my bravery was in fact cowardice sold to the highest blind and deaf bidder.

I was strong and not afraid to admit it until realizing my strength was weakness and I was getting nowhere fast walking around in chain metal.
I was bulletproof and not afraid to admit it until realizing I had been shot full of holes long before I had even been born, and dying is too often seen as no big deal when the life you are living is not really living.

New beginnings are sculpted from clay and honest to God possibility.

When meeting you for the first time and every time since I know I am meeting a true believer who understands to preach the word of God, one must first live in God.
There are never ending mysteries taking shape all around once we shatter the mirror images in our love sick eyes and again understand that our souls do indeed carry the weight.
When talking with you on the phone I always feel renewed inside and I think it has everything to do with the sound of your laughter and how it breaks free of convention and brings me back to the Garden.

Charles Eric Cicirella

9/15/2013

New Orleans: Sex & Death

(For Bob Dylan)

Break through the cold
Reject impermanence  
Rejoice!

We’re immortal

Embrace transience
Rebel!

Stranger in a strange land

Brushstrokes conjuring up ghosts
Reverberate!

His paintings vibrate

His paintings howl
His paintings soak up the blood on the killing floor.

Dance in the white flames

Resurrection a sanctified state of body and mind
Death is not the end.

 

Charles Eric Cicirella

2/6/2013

DISOBEDIENCE

(For Jim Volk)

Listen to the silence between the notes, to the rapture throughout his transmigrations.
His playing is ageless and has always been beyond the scope.

He breaks through the sham of domesticity.

Refuses to beat a dead horse because he knows a dead horse will always come back to mock you.
Replenishes his guitar epiphanies with a self confidence that stays focused on a pursuit of true happiness and not of stilted happenstance.

Listen to the sound above the notes, to the train track reservoirs of falling waters.

He does not believe in obedience for obedience sake because he is an old dog always willing to learn new behaviors.

Charles Eric Cicirella

5/18/2013

HOW DOES IT FEEL?

BRICK MORTAR

(For Tom Jones)

Super heroes do indeed exist.
They don’t wear capes or tights.
Some actually wear glasses and eat lots of fast food.

Tom Jones is not a menace.
Tom Jones is your friendly neighbor who always waves and says hello.
Tom Jones plays the drums and guitar like he’s been doing it since before Rome burned.

As friends go you couldn’t ask for anyone nicer or more generous.
When you’re down and out he may invite you out to Harrisburg for a steak or maybe he’ll hand you a jelly doughnut because he knows how much they make you smile.
There are still a few genuine people left in this world and Tom Jones is definitely one of them.

I think the real rock stars have yet to really have their day in the sun.
I think the real rock stars are quite often working some non-descript job pushing papers and somehow making it work for them.
I think the real rock stars are focused primarily on honing their craft and don’t bother themselves with the trappings of fame or mediocrity.

Charles Cicirella 1/29/2013

Cut the Sail

(For Andrea)

I am sick and tired of flying without my wings properly attached.

Sick and tired of the dirty looks and dirty whispering behind my back.
It’s rarely ego and when it comes to paranoia I’m quite certain many are against me, but that comes with experience and burning too many bridges with gleeful abandon.

When I suggested you write a poem as a companion piece to one of mine I thought you might find it fun and not for one second was I looking for praise or to be preened like some champion show poodle.

When I dance I look like I am having some kind of fit and when I sing it sounds more like an exorcism, but when I sit down and focus on the words anything can and will happen as the page catches fire and the screen melts before my opaque eyes.
When I try the art of small talk, language becomes my enemy and I no longer feel comfortable in my own skin, but when I get up and read my poetry I know there’s no calling it quits.
 

I felt really relaxed around you and I will not apologize for that.

I am quite confused how we straightened out whatever weirdness there was between us, only to now have more strangeness existing like a moat of hungry, snapping crocodiles.
I was so excited to have made, what I believed to be, a real intellectual connection and am quite disappointed that it now appears to be over.

Charles Cicirella 12/2/12

A Place of Apprehension

(For Andrea)

She speaks of the uncertainty of her words

But when reading her writing I sense nothing but a quality of determination.

She admits that sometimes she wrestles with insecurities

But I sense nothing but a warrior princess who understands the intricacies of peace.

A place of apprehension can too easily stop you in your tracks

And a place of apprehension can leave you wide open to unnecessary attacks.

Lowering your guard is not always the smart move especially when you are not entirely sure who to trust.

I was on a rocket ship heading toward the moon before I finally came to grips with the caterpillar astronaut inside and why gazing at the stars is not always the healthiest of pastimes.

When she speaks I listen because her truth is impossible to disavow in these days of red herrings and smoking cellphones.

If she told me to go underground I would buy a shovel and start digging because that’s how much I trust her instincts and know she’d never lead me astray.

There is a higher truth that is very much feminine not masculine and don’t let anyone tell you different.

A place of apprehension can be overcome if you only muster up the courage to swim against the rising tide and always pay attention to your innermost spark.

Charles Cicirella 11/26/12

Poetry Reading 7/18/2012

Poetry Reading 7/13/2012

Sediment (For Michelle)

William's Blake's image of Albion from his

A Large Book Of Designs

Sediment

(For Michelle)

I am channeling her river of sadness.

I heard her voice and knew I was home.

We break the speed of sound when allowing another person inside our Fortress of Solitude.

Standing by the river’s edge; sediment creeping between my toes.

I am lost in Mother Nature’s embrace, knowing full well civilization over stepped a long time ago.

I know she is a healer and that the cakes she bakes are edible poetry.

I cannot recall the last time I went the distance.

It has been too long since I shared my innermost secrets with an intimate stranger.

Falling in love with happenstance a fool’s errand and I’m tired of running that marathon solo.

I am channeling the sweltering heat of her beloved country.

I heard her animal symphony and knew I was heading in a positive direction.

We must break on through to the other side if we ever wish to share actual love in these strange times.

Her river of sadness is not about misfortune or placing blame.

Her river of darkness has nothing to do with justifying anything or locating an escape hatch.

Her river of light shines brighter than the Sun and understands just what is meant by a Glad Day.

Charles Cicirella 6/24/12

I Was Dreaming When I Wrote This

(For Mridara)

I was dreaming when I wrote this.
When I wrote this I was under the influence of only you.
Sometimes dreams sneak up on you, other times they come at you like a cyclone.

I was believing when I wrote this.
When I wrote this I was under the influence of a goddess.
Sometimes belief falls from the sky like hard rain, other times it wakes you in the morning with breakfast in bed and a big smile on its angelic face.

I was flying when I wrote this.
When I wrote this I was under the influence of high-level clouds and heavenly bodies.
Sometimes flying takes you away from the ones you love, other times flying brings you back to those who you’ve discovered you cannot live without.

You are a dream come true.
The living embodiment of what occurs when passion and intellect collide head-on.
I’ve always believed one day my dreams would take flight and I’d finally discover another soul who gets what it feels like to have a volcano raging inside and how the only calm you ever truly experience is when you’re scaling unbelievable heights in your mind’s eye.

Charles Cicirella
3/26/2012

Perfect Storm

(For Mridara)

She’s a perfect storm of Spiritus Mundi and existential angst.
She’s the primal fire that burns hotter than the yellow sun.
She’s Vincent’s “The Starry Night” and Frida’s “Self-portrait with Thorn Necklace and Hummingbird”.
She’s the one you wish would call when night presses down on you like bullets from a jealous gun.

I was alone.
I was quaking in my own ill equipped self-confidence.
I was rationalizing everything by living in the moment with denial as my co-conspirator.
I wasn’t and that was not much fun.

Break open the Earth with your hands and mouth.
Break down who you are by questioning everything and allow chaos to become your North Star.
Break through constancy with the passion of an invincible Saint and refuse any and all limits especially when they have been introduced through self-doubt and self-recrimination.

Our feelings are never counterfeit when we are an honest broker with the God that lives inside us.
Our feelings are never circumspect or circumstantial as long as we forestall addictive remedies by crashing through empty promises and empty declarations of love.
Our feelings will never let us down as long as we face them head on and stare straight into the dragon’s warring eyes.

I desire her.
She’s a perfect storm of questions questioned and answers left by the church’s door.
I am inspired by the word-poems she creates and how these structures float so freely in oceans of space.
She’s a perfect storm of new dawns and ancient autumns turning around and around like a cosmic pinwheel on a perpetual quest for self-knowledge.
I desire to hold her when the April rains arrive and our blue raincoats serve as no more protection than our blue moods.

Charles Cicirella
3/25/2012