Leah I met her and immediately liked her. She helped prove to me that not all people on FB are just emoticons and silly ass stickers. She also opened my eyes to fucking on Muppet sheets and that I’m not the only one who climbs inside of their writing and stays for a good long while because getting it just right is important in our land of no free lunches and welfare that in the end only benefits the rich. I met her in Canton, Ohio. She was featured. In fact she was the only poet that night who I could stand to listen to because I am funny that way and do not accept half measures from anyone because if you strive for only mediocrity then we cannot be friends. Her husband is also someone who holds a special place in my heart. I even asked him to write a forward to a collection of my poetry because I found his feedback on FB not only insightful, but also helpful in a way that shows how genuine he is and that he’s not just saying nice things because he has nothing else to offer to the conversation. We live in a world of buzz killers and shock jocks extraordinaire, but if you look closely and take the time to eat the flowers and not just smell them we also live in a world of open hearts and true romantics who everyday die just a little bit to help keep the rest of us just that much saner. I have never lived in a closet nor have I ever used words as a shield because either I was too afraid to show the world just who I am and why it is I am here or because being realistic is easier said than done. I believe the reason I find myself connecting with Leah as much as I do is because she has also never closeted any of her fears and refuses not to show up simply because it may hurt too much or she may be asked to leave her comfort zone and right some honest to God wrongs. Let’s get something straight right here and now poets are not just writers, but are in fact the conscience of the world. I refuse to mince any words when it comes to Leah Mueller and how she rocks my entire universe because she never fails to be a light in the darkness and a story whose chapter and verse will both enlighten you and make you laugh harder than you ever have before. Charles Cicirella 7/21/15

Bad Cop, Bad Cop Why do cops keep killing black people? North Charleston Patrolman Michael Thomas Slager firing several times at Walter Lamer Scott’s back while he's running away after the officer already had hit him with a stun gun. To make matters even worse, after he falls down the officer slowly walks toward Scott, who appears to be unresponsive, and places him in handcuffs. Slager was charged with murder after a video surfaced contradicting his initial police report. Or putting Eric Garner in a chokehold for about 15 to 19 seconds during an arrest even though he repeated at least eight times, “I can’t breathe.” The New York City Medical Examiner's Office attributed Garner's death to a combination of a chokehold, compression of his chest, and poor health. Or the death of 18-year-old Michael Brown, who was fatally shot by Darren Wilson, 28, a white police officer in Ferguson, Missouri. On November 24, 2014, it was announced that the St. Louis County grand jury had decided not to indict Wilson. On March 4, 2015, the U.S. Department of Justice cleared Wilson of civil rights violations in the shooting, finding that witnesses who corroborated his account were credible while those who incriminated him were not, and that according to the evidence, Wilson shot Michael Brown in self-defense. Or the death of Tamir Rice, the 12-year-old boy fatally shot by a Cleveland police officer because the officer thought he was holding a gun when actually he was carrying a replica of a gun, a Colt pistol that shoots plastic pellets. There was even a caller to Cleveland’s 911 system that had reported that the gun Tamir was holding was “probably fake” but of course the officers did not know any of this at the time. On June 3, 2015, the County Sheriff's Office released a statement in which they declared their investigation to be completed and that they had turned their findings over to the county prosecutor, who will review the report and decide whether to present evidence to a grand jury. In the aftermath of the shooting, it was reported that officer Loehmann, in his previous job as a policeman in Independence, Ohio, had been deemed an emotionally unstable recruit and unfit for duty. I would say we need to put a stop to all of this killing, but it's becoming more and more apparent that black lives just do not matter as much as other lives and perhaps to the police they do not matter at all. And now there’s the case of Sandra Bland who was found hanged in a jail cell in Texas three days after she was arrested during a traffic stop. The family is ordering an independent autopsy to find out what really happened to the 28-year-old. Authorities claim that Bland committed suicide in their custody, but family members are skeptical. So if you’re black, must you just accept that you’re born with a target on your back? Is this how we’re going to allow things to regress without even raising an eyebrow, realizing that there is something happening here and what it is has become altogether too clear? And the grand juries and all of those supposed special investigations are not doing a damn thing to get to the poisonous roots of racism that have been embedded in our society since long before Jim Crow. And I am not even sure what can be done about any of this other than continuing to ask the question, "Why do cops keep killing black people?" until we get an answer that confronts this issue and doesn’t just bury it. We need to realize and accept that we’re all a part of this problem and stop shielding our eyes and pretending that we’re not all black in some facet or other and need to stand together as a united front against all of these bad cops who are murdering people in cold blood. This should not only be a black issue but should be a people issue concerning each and every one of us and until that happens we’re all fucked. Charles Cicirella 7/21/15

Light It Up! (For Paisha Thomas) She puts the sugar in my coffee. Bounce in my step. Fire back into my dragon. When she sings it’s a religion. A trip down memory lane resurrecting the dead. There’s no surface waste to her singing, no random notes or lost horizons. It’s about hurt. And paying your dues. Climbing the mountain and channeling your inner métier and interior wealth. If you are lost, listen and you’ll be found. If you are low, listen and you’ll be lifted up. If you are down and out, listen and you’ll be handed the keys to the city. She puts the genie back in the bottle and teaches it a thing or two about rhythm and blues. She makes you crave yesterdays while pushing you ever onward to strive toward futures uncast and a presence of mind you’ve only fantasized about. Outside in. Inside Out. She makes you spin, twist and shout. Kick off your shoes and stay awhile in her loving, healing embrace. Charles Cicirella 7/22/15

Suppression Suppression Regression Depression Idiot savant Child prodigy Celebrity Apprentice Regal Royal Cuckoo for Cocoa Puffs Spoon in mouth Foot in ass Pop goes the weasel Micro penis Micro casket Micro id Supplant Entrench Redress Divisive Incisive Reactive Hotshot Sunspot Jump shot Charles Cicirella 7/22/15

i am still here just stuck my finger up my ass to scratch an itch made me think of when i met allen ginsberg i handed him a collection of my poetry he quickly flipped through it saw the word asshole said he had written a poem about his asshole too i am still here right here but you are gone and it makes me feel nothing at all i am not bukowski kerouac dylan or donovan (thank god) i am just me and i am happy being me because i have never been anyone else and why would i want to be just stuck my finger up my ass it reminded me of when you would lick my asshole i guess you call it a rimjob you are the only person who has had their tongue up my ass i wonder if you ever think about it and how it may make you feel whenever you would do it i would worry what if i hadn’t wiped good enough but then i figured too late now and if there was any shit left you would inadvertently take care of it and basically i killed two birds with one rather slippery stone charles cicirella 7/24/15

Addictive Properties I want to get high. Not because I need to. But simply because I’m bored. Bored of this. Bored of that. Even bored of you. Oh don’t worry. I am also completely and utterly bored with myself. In fact when I woke up this afternoon I purposely did not look in the mirror because I knew I was still holding a grudge from the night before when I was somebody else. Phone died. White screen of death. Cable bill is due and I only have five dollars and twenty cents to my name. Don’t worry though I refuse to feel sorry for myself because what good would it do? I want to get high. I’d even settle for some skunk weed. I just need something to take the edge off of everything and at this point I still believe pot is better than bullets or hanging or whatever other form of suicide is all the rage during these broken days and nights. Bored of nothingness. Bored of somethingness. Even bored of chocolate and "The Rainbow Connection." Charles Cicirella 7/26/15

Poetessa VI I haven’t a clue what’s going on. All I know is she’s gone. And maybe it’s for the best or maybe it’s not. I’m really not sure and I need a Tums. I am almost used to the chalky taste. It’s like I swallowed after-school detention. I never understood what purpose a guidance counselor served. I wonder if that is in some small part accountable for my no direction home status. I only have myself to blame for the frustration and irritation I’ve lately been feeling. I am tired of taking hold of my own rudder and wish I could find someone- anyone to go sailing with. I remember going to Neff Rd. and walking down the pier. I believe that was the time I saw Shannon’s rather out of control, sexy, blonde bush. I probably shouldn’t be talking about another woman’s bush, but Poetessa is gone so I’m not sure what more collateral damage I could possibly cause as my words like daggers cut into her eye sockets. I’m like a Takata airbag and no product recall will remedy this failing will. Let’s not forget the good times when things meant to keep you safe didn’t wind up killing you because the only thing that matters to a company now is their profit and their greed. Let’s not forget when the baby stars falling from the sky had our best interests at heart and typing the words “Come here” both stirred and leveled the playing field. I am tired of board games and the button collection my cousin and I once coveted like gold doubloons. I don’t care what Miss Scarlet is doing in the Conservatory with Colonel Mustard. All I care about is proving to you how sorry I am and that what we had and still can have is real and not just gunshot residue. Charles Cicirella 7/27/15

Flim-Flam I told her I was a jackal. She didn’t listen. They never do. I knew when first meeting you in Canton we were similar in similar ways. I’m still not sure if you understand that or if you ever will. People like us are too often underestimated or undervalued, but that’s before all of the votes are counted and someone’s crown is relinquished and someone calls the Feds. I told her many truths and even spread some lies on top for good measure. I’m a comedian with killer instincts and the timing of a purloined patron saint. When I was a child I wanted to either be a talk show host or an oral surgeon when I grew up. I’m still not exactly sure what an oral surgeon does and for talk show hosts once Letterman retired there was nothing more to talk about. I told her a lot of things and she seemed to buy most if not all of it because she was either gullible or hungry for love and what’s the bloody difference when your Nielsen Ratings suck and sucking someone’s schwantz is seen as the same thing as good oral hygiene. I fell asleep during Jeopardy and when I woke up there were two new contestants and everything seemed just a little bit off. It was as if I had climbed through the looking-glass and was now just another Alice-wannabe chasing a white rabbit and desperately trying to feed my own head. Orson Welles played the part of Harry Lime perfectly because he understood the ins and outs of a seedy underworld and that to be an unassailable confidence man you need to first have confidence in oneself. I cleared my throat and when I spit only flim-flam came out, but no phlegm. I have a friend whose father loves the circus, but from the way my friend talks it makes his father no easier to talk to or connect with. I wonder why that is because in my estimation someone who loves the circus would be an all-around good guy and yet that does not seem to be at all the case. Now I am thinking of John Wayne Gacy who was a convicted American serial killer and rapist who sexually assaulted and murdered at least 33 teenage boys and young men between 1972 and 1978 in Chicago. He became known as the "Killer Clown" due to his charitable services at fundraising events, parades and children's parties where he would dress as "Pogo the Clown", a character he devised himself. Oh and he also painted quite a few clown portraits. Charles Cicirella 7/28/15

Growl (For Juliet Cook) We spit Spew Chortle I think I’ve written this poem before, but that’s okay because I believe Juliet will understand. If she doesn’t well that’s okay too because we rarely see eye to eye and when we do it often has to do with the burning of the midnight oil. Either way I am tired of trimming my wick and as candles go I‘ve never found them all that romantic or satisfactory when attempting to put any real light on a tiresome or troubling issue. We pray Puke Bloviate Writing poetry is the only time I don’t feel at odds with myself. And it’s not because I have anything all that meaningful to say because to be perfectly honest I’ve never been much of a deep thinker and I understand that the light at the end of the tunnel is just my mind playing tricks on me. I am not a complete cynic though and still believe in miracles when the time is ripe and the religious zealots have all blown themselves into pieces and parts of complete and utter randomness. We cum Cackle Pistol whip our enemies until they either surrender or retaliate. Charles Cicirella 7/31/15

Untitled I remember standing by the creek on Liberty down where the cars could not see us that is where I smoked my first cigarette I think it was a Marlboro and it didn't make me feel like a cowboy no, it just made me feel dirty as I coughed and pretended I wasn't new to all this cancer Charles Cicirella 8/1/15

Timepiece I’ve only owned one timepiece in my life. It was a Timex Snoopy watch with a Twist-O-Flex watchband. I still think about it from time to time even though I have no clue where it may have ended up. “God is a concept by which we measure our pain." John Lennon said that. I think the same can be said for time. Especially if you squint your eyes and keep in mind that each and every one of us is running out the clock. John may have been a spoiled prat, but he was also a human being who knew about pain and God in equal measures. She apologized for hurting my feelings which was completely unnecessary because my feelings are fine and the reason I stopped talking to her was simply because I ran out of anything to say. My timing was not the best in that particular situation, but shit happens and when it does it’s best to get most of it in the toilet avoiding the walls and floor if you possibly can help it. My asshole is still not completely clean from the last time we had phone sex, but I am guessing if I keep an eye on it at some point the itching and the scratching will cease and desist. I heard a baker read the other night. Made me wonder if the candlestick-maker and butcher were not far behind. Klecko reminded me of Tom Waits which I believe he’d take as a compliment. 3-2-1 I found myself really relating to the second St. Paul poet’s poem about falling out of a moving car when a child. Not because I ever have, but because it’s something I still think about doing either as a stuntman or stunted adult. I desire to wind her timepiece, but I do not know her well enough. Plus she is married and more than likely does not appreciate men other than her husband futzing around with her watch works. It is time to sing my song. It is time to get along. It is time to take to the stage and forget the audience and forget my birth and forget trying to reenact my death and just make something, anything happen before it’s too late and our chickens come home to roost and show us who’s boss and show us why time matters even though it is relative in the greater and lesser scheme of things. Charles Cicirella 8/5/15

Bun in the Oven (For Klecko) Got a bun in the oven going to call it Danny. I can already tell he’s like all nine seasons of Seinfeld, including the disappointing series finale that no one cared for including the actors; no matter what they may say now. I have headphones on so if I’m not reaching you that’s why and I’m sticking to this story like roadkill sticks to the black baking asphalt. Cassandra Wilson is singing about what a little moonlight can do. She’s in New Orleans. I was there once with two guys in a white Dodge van. It was the year OJ escaped justice. We lit the town on fire and then quickly left because wishes and promises are two completely different animals and I am tired of failing you so habitually. Now I’m thinking about when I was at the St. Vincent Shelter in Las Vegas. I met a junkie who had been a teacher and a teacher who wanted to be a junkie. Some guy rubbed his nuts for me in the shower and soon after got ridden out on a rail. I remember how they separated the men and the women and how sad I felt as I went to sleep knowing that no family was complete as the darkness swallowed us all whole. I was looking for God or Ernie Kovacs or at the very least someone who had read some Shakespeare and understood the ins and outs of comedy and tragedy and the one great general theme: disorder. Got a loaf of sourdough bread in the oven going to buy it a pork pie hat and pray it’s not dyslexic. If Juliet reads this poem she will again think how it goes off in multiple directions. As poets go I’m more of a bankrupt graffiti artist and don’t mind sleeping on the floor going on almost twelve years now. "Badges? We don't need no stinkin' badges!" Charles Cicirella 8/5/15

Dr. Pickens He handed me some choice nuggets as I exited his universal mind. I like being his navigator because he grades on a curve and knows which direction the “Idiot Wind” blows. “Father Knows Best”, but when father cannot be disturbed, Dr. Agnew T. Pickens steps up to the plate trying to make everyone’s top-secret desires advance from out of the cloakroom. I believe he was a guest at the Hotel California and knows a thing or two about dumpster diving and the lost art of confounding expectations. He offered me a breath mint and I knew it was time to go in for the kill, so I reached down for the Frank Stanford collection of poems while dropping a bullet into the chamber of his barrel and pressing it gently forward. The moon preyed upon us like a well-tanned seventy five year old George Hamilton-vampire with a Cialis dick and Chinese eyes preys upon its unsuspecting victims. I wasn’t able to figure out your smart phone fast enough to snap off a picture of two. We experienced it though, there’s no denying that and we wouldn’t have if we hadn’t been going in the opposite direction. Thank you Dr. Pickens. Charles Cicirella 8/6/15

Scratching the Surface of the Sun with My Ape Fingers Got to get back to that feeling. There’s invincibility in these old bones. I must learn to channel my inner orangutan. Drinking instant coffee, downloading Bob Dylan audience recordings I may or may not ever get around to listening to as I try and remember a few choice lines from when I was sleeping. My great ape brain is beginning to have holes in it like Swiss cheese that is $8.99 a pound, but is on sale this week for $7.99. That’s a savings of a whole dollar. I will not forget you, but I wish you would stop contacting me. I cannot explain it, but something broke and there’s no fixing it no matter if you’re MacGyver or Bob Vila. Got to return to that feeling of inspiration dripping from all of my orifices. I need a box of tissues and a couple of beach towels just in case things get ugly and all of my bodily functions give out at once. I must learn to surf the channels with more self-confidence. Spend more time with the actual journey itself and less time upsetting myself over where I might end up in the greater or lesser scheme of things. Charles Cicirella 8/8/15

It’s not about winning or losing or even how you play the game I am not concerned about winning or losing or even how you believe I played the game. I just stopped caring and I cannot explain that nor do I wish to explain it to you or even to myself. He used to call her Tangerine. I was in the back seat when she gave him head. When she was getting out of the car I said something like thanks for the blowjob and he never spoke to me again. Starting to realize all these years later that people around me took issue with how few showers I may have taken during high school. I don’t believe I was dirty, but once your personal hygiene is questioned everything else is soon placed under the microscope. It’s funny to think how Lori Steiner had no problem messing around with Larry Turozy, but wouldn’t even show me her breasts one single time. And that includes the time she was drunk and called me over to her house to I guess tease me because she knew she still could. Larry also dated Julie Balunek another girl I wouldn’t have minded messing around with. We cut school one afternoon and went over to John Dobeck’s house to watch Deep Throat but it didn’t go any farther than that. I don’t have a clue what I’m doing or where my fingers may next land on this keyboard. I will say it’s very strange writing about people I have not thought about in twenty plus years. I’m completely in love with all of the uncomfortable places poetry oftentimes takes me and I do not understand why other poets choose to pull their punches instead of writing about what they know and obliterating themselves in the process. Charles Cicirella 8/8/15

Exaggerations in Time and Space It’s time I loaded the pipe and reminded myself why I called you here in the first place. It’s time I wrote about blood and gore and stopped scrawling my name in the clouds. I am sick and tired of starting every sentence with me and never getting to the meat and potatoes of you and all you had to offer before you were aborted and your stem cells were plugged into the scientific research grid. My spacesuit doesn’t fit and when you said we would be hanging out in a space capsule I didn’t think you actually meant an honest to God NASA space capsule. I have to leave the capsule if I want to change my mind and I don’t believe we’re getting anywhere on these negotiations when seeing eye to eye is becoming less and less likely and all you seem to want to do is order room service and complain about your prime rib not being nearly bloody enough. It’s time for another Jif Extra Crunchy Peanut Butter and Smucker's Strawberry Preserves sandwich. It’s time you called my bluff and I took you from behind like a Standard Schnauzer. Okay I am going to now cleanse the doors of perception so things appear as they are, infinite with no congestion or sinus headache to get in the way. I believe I was 2 years old the first time I met Buddha. He was sitting by the side of the road and when I stopped and offered him a ride he said he’d pass because he enjoyed waiting. When I asked what he was waiting for he didn’t answer nor did he have to. The second time I met Buddha he was the one in the driver’s seat and when he sped by without even slowing down I just smiled and kept sitting under The Bodhi Tree because I knew my journey had just begun. Charles Cicirella 8/8/15

The Cuyahoga County Fair and a warren of rabbits. (For Jennifer Nowakowski) I opened the patio door. Witnessed firsthand a loud ribbiting frog. Wondered what it would be like having dinner with you and your family. Your significant other came up and asked if I still needed a ride home. Said he had seen my post on FB and poked around until he found a picture of me. I immediately liked him and felt a warmth and a kindness I’ve not encountered in quite some time in another human being. A group of us went to a bar afterwards. You both came in a bit later and joined our group. Your wit was a force to be reckoned with as you ordered another beer and made another killer quip. I heard it was your birthday. Realized I wasn’t too bad with words and maybe I should try writing you a poem. Some people are funny and it’s not because they say anything funny or act funny or do anything that was on its face very funny. Some people are just funny and they make me smile and laugh out loud when I think about them. Happy Birthday! Charles Cicirella 8/13/15

Just breathe I’m not taking nearly enough deep breaths. I need to get out of this place. There is no movement that can move me away from this self-induced paralysis. How do I go about changing the story? Maybe I’m just a pulp poet and all of the meat is rotting on the open prairie. Let’s together develop a conscience and stop focusing on the color of our skin. There’s no fortune cookie big enough to foretell all this pervasive hypocrisy. You said you were good with words. I didn’t believe you. I still don’t. I think you’re a lizard who’s too cool and slippery for their own good and if you take one more selfie of that rusty, unholy smirk I swear I’ll do more than just unfriend you. No one ever showed me how to stop and smell the roses. I know that’s no excuse, but that’s all I got as I go down dying, wishing these aspirin would take away more than just this headache. Here’s my latest excuse. Memory issues are getting in the way of my remembering to say I love you. I also am beginning to have a problem with brown food like my grandmother did when the Alzheimer’s took her away and returned a kinder, more forgiving stranger. Just breathe or at the very least learn how to fake it as a perfectly good society crumbles around your feet and you’re left with nothing not even your wits or your mom’s recipes. Just breathe and never forget we’re out here watching and sizing up your every move as you play the role of rock star goddess messiah and we acquiesce around your swishing hips and twist and shout blue thundering eyes. I bought my ticket so for now I won’t complain, but that doesn’t mean I’m happy or pleased with all of this privilege people keep yammering on and on about that I cannot seem to get a hold of or for that matter find amid all of this white noise. Charles Cicirella 8/14/15