Carthage Domain

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"The Almighty Has Terrified Me"

I will suspend disbelief for a little while and believe this chocolate bar is God.
My father lives in Florida, but sometimes you have to take what you get and accept handouts are not always handed out for free.
I wish that this chocolate bar had almonds, but beggars cannot be choosers, especially when it has to do with serotonin levels and adjusting your expectations to maximum resplendency.

The Almighty has terrified me, but that’s alright because I’ve always known being one of the 144,000 chosen would not be a walk in the park, especially when competition is so stiff and everyone seems to have forgotten Jesus Christ was born, died and raised again a Jew.
Genocide is such an overplayed hand, and the fear mongers and the brown shirts best stop pushing such a hateful and ignorant agenda because sooner or later the people will finally have had enough and will rise up against their oppressors, leaving no stone or cheek unturned.
The Almighty has terrified me into believing more in myself because the calm before the storm has been placed into receivership, and no ark is going to be large enough to save everyone and that includes all of the animals and coveted humans this time around.
  
I will suspend disbelief for the time being and believe this chocolate bar is calling me.
My real father is up in Heaven even though I am finding that increasingly more difficult to believe. I am not programmed to look forward to much of anything, not even having a real life beyond this splendid isolation.
I wish I was going to more than just one Bob Dylan concert this tour. He is the only thing I’ve found that more than exceeds my expectations, but beggars cannot be choosers, especially when heading for another joint before the distance swallows you whole and spits you out in little, insignificant pieces and parts.

Charles Cicirella
9/8/14

My Self-Esteem Is In The Shitter

Just realized I have not a single person in my life to tell me they love me.
Wonder if I’ll ever be able to lift myself from this morass I’ve created.
My self-esteem is in the shitter, and it’s no surprise when there is no one there to talk to and I spend all of my time completely isolated from another human being.

My self-esteem has called it quits as I lie here on this killing floor wondering how things have gotten so out of control and why the part I always seem to play is either of the loner or lone gunman.
I have assassinated my own good will by going up into the clock tower and focusing only on my targets, never once just enjoying the view.
I’m in the bathroom of my mind, and there’s not enough toilet paper to wipe away how poorly I’m feeling.

We had Chinese food last night, but someone stole my fortune cookie.
Wondering how long I’ll be able to go on like this before the bubble bursts or worse I discover myself trapped inside of the bubble like John Travolta in that awful made-for-TV movie.
My self-esteem is in the shitter as I consider changing my name to Lazarus and praying for a savior to raise me from the dead.

Charles Cicirella
9/11/14

Abe Lincoln

Go ahead and strip me down to my bare essentials.
When it’s come to slavery, I’ve always been a willing participant as long as when my emancipation arrives, I’m given a good book to read and a seat by the window.
I’m tired of all your speechifying because when push comes to shove, your pragmatism hardly shoves enough.

Abraham Lincoln was a really good leader. At least that’s what history tells us as we put down the current issue of Time and allow the past to speak to us through facts, not non-fiction.
I don’t need a litmus test to know I’m a liberal and proud to be one just like I don’t need a weatherman to show me how intolerant too many people are when it comes to our very first black President of the United States.
Right there in the title is the word united, and yet it’s depressing how many people have forgotten what this word means or that it ever existed in the first place.

Go ahead and lay me bare in front of all my most fervent of detractors because I’ve never had anything to hide and believe the truth will set every one of us free once we can agree upon one truth indivisible for all.
You cannot write a document and say all men are created equal when the only men you actually meant were rich white men.
Looks like we’re being goaded to again go to war because the neocons are never happy unless we’re occupying someone. I understand some boogeymen are very real and must be dealt with. What I am having a difficult time understanding is why it is always America that must take the fight to these assholes.

Charles Cicirella
9/10/14

Ruminations

Punched in the gut again by events I cannot control.
It’s the way of the world when nothing seems to be going your way.
Listen to the voice on the radio and know soon you’ll be submerged beneath the waves.

Cogitations like partially digested food. Like ponderings of transient thoughts going nowhere.
I was attracted to her distress and how she spent hours in the bathroom picking at her skin.
I was attracted to how she never appeared to wrinkle even when a stitch in time was bearing down on her and she was lost in the ruminations of her own restless legs syndrome.

Bukowski was a pugilist as much as he was a poet and a loner and a madman.
I wish I could have driven around Hollywood with him in that BMW he bought with movie money.
I’ll never forget watching a documentary about him and how disgusted I was when watching him become more and more enraged as he kicked his wife off of the couch.

Punched in the gut by hunger pangs and the inane banality of it all.
It’s the way of the world especially when you’re as dull as paste and even the paste is more interesting.
Listen to the voices in your head just long enough to know they’re full of shit and that soon you’ll be ruminating on another blue Sunday.

Charles Cicirella
9/6/14

Third Eye Revolution Charles Cicirella - poetry and voice 9/5/14

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Charles Cicirella reading at the open mic. at Writing Knights - Monday, August 25, 2014, Hosted by Azriel Johnson. - at Cultured Coffee Co. Canton, OH.

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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