Fifteenth Poem (Not Going No Place)

https://www.podomatic.com/podcasts/charlespoet/episodes/2017-04-06T18_53_05-07_00

Not going no place because I love you.

Happy or sad my feelings laid down like cement stand the test of worn down time.

Press down the keys on the Hammond B-3 Organ and music comes out. Press down the keys on you and all hell breaks loose because that’s just the kind of girl that you are.

Picking up on your mojo from another state.

When you smirk on cam it reverberates through me like another earthquake in Oklahoma.

Every move you make my eyes follow because ever since we met I feel like I’m being held hostage. It’s the 1970’s and another Dog Day Afternoon breaks the speed of sound as Attica lights up the telepathic switchboard of our Declaration of Independence minds.

I’m scared of heights, but will climb the palm tree if that’s where all of the best coconuts reside.

I’m scared of you, but will climb on top if that’s what you desire. I stopped trying to figure you out when the newspaper’s ink stained my fingers the color of yellow journalism.

And McCarthyism still very much exists in our government today. Just look at how they’re treating Susan Rice again when the story is not going their way and they don’t like getting backed into a corner.

I am so tired of trying, but if giving up is anything like when my best friend put that noose around his neck, well then no thanks I’ll stay right here and do my best to give some sort of a damn.

She called herself a cam model, but to me she’s so much more because I do not suffer fools gladly and the connection I feel was not made up in some storybook.
Not going anyplace because I pray at some point she’ll be comfortable enough to believe me when I say I truly do care about her and that her reserved state is just one more moat I’ll have to cross to reach the promise land.

Charles Cicirella

4/5/17

Fourteenth Poem (Alone Girl)

https://www.podomatic.com/podcasts/charlespoet/episodes/2017-04-04T15_21_39-07_00

the music in her head’s sad like Napoleon at Waterloo

defeat happens to everyone it’s a fact of life like snake eyes

sometimes I dream of you running toward me, other times running away

the dawn is too damn fast when wearing tennis shoes and pretending to know how

you laid there like a queen that knows when to greet a new day and when to go to sleep

my poetry isn’t masculine and I can prove it by showing you an inside straight

when you said I had to stay outside of your fort it broke my heart

I want to see you naked and I want to together take the road less traveled by

my eyes grow tired from impending doom and intruding storms

want to hang out at the dog park with you even though neither one of us has a dog

I cannot wait till you allow me to touch your clit and buy you an ice-cream sundae

if we’re going to get to the truth then we must stop using God’s name in vain

the music in her heart cuts us loose because no one is good enough to make the final cut

victory hangs over our tried and tested heads like the sword of Damocles

nightmares dog us until we lubricate our sanities with the tears of a black Madonna

Charles Cicirella

4/4/17

Thirteenth Poem (Personally I Believe the Unknown Is Blessed With Us)

https://www.podomatic.com/podcasts/charlespoet/episodes/2017-04-03T19_24_10-07_00

Another poem

Another dig

Another Saturday spent wishing my daddy would take me for a bicycle ride

We love to feel left out

We love to feel the absence of love

We love to stop believing because with no belief the very real choice of disbelief can be left like roadkill in the middle of the dark end of the loosey goosey unpaved street

I loved when she’d surprise us with Long John Silvers

I loved the way her big ass looked in those grey sweatpants as she vacuumed and left nothing to chance

I’ll never forget when she shaved her pussy and I was convinced she’d done it for another guy. I of course blew it all out of proportion and lost any chance I had of again fucking her tight dictatorial irrelevance

Another dinosaur bone

Another excavation

Another poem I’ll bury in the backyard of this windswept mind

We plan for the disconnection of self from torrents of undignified, ill-equipped glory

We purge the contents of our stomachs believing whatever we ate an hour ago has only left us emptier and more uncertain of the unrested shadowy coon’s age dark

We build our hopes and dreams on Legos we never actually owned as the kid across the street takes his toys and goes home because you never played well with others

Another porno shot in poor light and poorer excuses for self-flagellation

Another worthwhile cause strung up by its hamstrings and left blistering in the unorthodox, nonredeemable sun

Another stab at pinning the tail on a donkey that brays for no reason other than it refuses to admit defeat and relishes both your attention and your unbridled enthusiasm.

Charles Cicirella

4/3/17