Shake, Rattle and Dinner Roll

http://charlespoet.podomatic.com/entry/2016-10-24T22_26_16-07_00

Hand shaking thinking about touching her breasts.

We were in a hotel, our first time together.

Somehow I persuaded her to remove her tee-shirt.

She taught me how she liked to be touched.

Everything seemed so much simpler then.

I still couldn’t get it through my thick skull I could be in a relationship and be happy.

No, I pulled all the same bullshit, pushed all the same buttons.

Argumentative, abusive, emotionally taxing to the point I ran out of second chances.

Nearly fifty and I’ll probably never learn my lesson.

I see my friends and how their art suffers when they have a significant other.

I’ve always subscribed to the Groucho line "Please accept my resignation. I don’t care to belong to any club that will have me as a member."

It rings true like lemonade on a hot day and never forgiving the Germans no matter how nice they appear today.

We go it alone or we bring along a battalion of Special Forces.

The US found it necessary to burn down villages, poison wells, and wipe out the enemy because war is hell and this proves especially true when we bring it on ourselves.

I cannot seem to make room for anyone else in my life. Is it because I’m too self-obsessed or because I don’t want to bury anyone in my own special brand of isolation?

I was a martyr then I was a lover then I stopped daydreaming and allowed myself to be nailed to the Giving Tree.

He’s the Killer and plays like he is possessed by the devil or some other supernatural supplicant. And I am a parser of words or one of the unwashed or perhaps I’m both or neither of the two. Either way I will burn for my sins once they’re recognized and my name in the Book of Life is erased with the flick of a very nimble and all-knowing wrist.

Charles Cicirella

10/23/16

Untitled

http://charlespoet.podomatic.com/entry/2016-10-21T18_43_10-07_00

Lost in the wetness of your Bob Newhart eyes

I think this poem is for you, but am choosing to keep that information even from myself

I’ve written some poetry for Darin Bulai, but he never seemed all that impressed so I moved on.

Never forget Detroit and how I made you cry in the bus station. I had a copy of a Fats Domino biography under my arm. The irony was lost on me until now.

Lost in the GPS coordinates of your open border thighs.

The bridge cost fifteen bucks, but sometimes you just have to grin and have someone else pay the money grubbing reaper.

Walking around Chinatown I felt truly insignificant and I liked it. Being American only got you the hard sell.

The hand-pulled noodles made a fool out of me and the pork is the best thing I’ve ever had in my mouth.

My poetry is like a raccoon in that it’s always wearing a mask and has small hands to get inside your trash cans.

I’ll never forget when you served up my head on that silver or was it a gold platter and how you danced like Salome right out of the cinematic frame.

I believe Leonard’s idea of a really good bowel movement has to do with sublime catharsis and the dying of a howling generation of low information invalids.

I have a headache, but that’s not news. The blood red caplets don’t seem to be doing the trick and getting my hands on anything stronger never seems to go my way.

Lost in the hotcakes, sausage and maple syrup of your bursting Mary Tyler Moore smile.

I thought this poem was for you, but now I’m really not sure.

I’ve written poetry for so many people it’s hard to keep track. Let’s just say I’ve taken alienation to a whole other level.

Never forget walking up the stairs behind you at King Books and as I looked at your butt in those blue corduroys thinking I’d never again see you naked and it made me sad then and still makes me sad now.

Charles Cicirella

10/21/16

Rainbow Sprinkles

http://charlespoet.podomatic.com/entry/2016-10-21T17_59_15-07_00

Wearing a plaid skirt

Keeps me on my toes with fashion and manmade resistance

I couldn’t stop looking at her midsection

I’m funny that way

Always had a thing for librarians ever since I first rode to the library on my yellow ten speed Free Spirit

I remember the Wizard of Oz tome and how the library then and now represented a world I always look forward to getting lost in

There’s infinite wonder and an eternity of spectral surprises and Julie she represents the most exceptional and exquisite tastes of a humanity always inquisitive and on the mark

It’s time we broke open our Dalinian hearts and lost ourselves in the milk of the Savior

Wearing my heart on my sleeve

I couldn’t help but notice she wasn’t paying attention to me

There’s something about her that reminds me of the Peanuts and especially Peppermint Patti

I couldn’t get enough of their cartoons as my cousin Lori and I would trudge back and forth from the library with another armful of their Sunday funnies

Been eating butterscotch sundaes as of late with whipped cream, nuts and rainbow sprinkles

I warm the butterscotch up in the microwave so when it hits the vanilla ice-cream a soup starts to form as I go to town on this delicious and decadent verboten treat

We broke bread together as they served us pigeon and called it fried chicken right before I got up to feature for the first time in Cleveland in fifteen years or more

Having Julie in the audience made that night even more special as I read my heart out and pulled no punches as I pushed the river and said Geronimo.

Charles Cicirella

10/21/16