ROOMFUL OF MIRRORS, by Charles Cicirella & Ted Kane

ROOMFUL OF MIRRORS

by Charles Cicirella & Ted Kane

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1.	Rip the Flesh from My Face 03:59	lyrics	buy track
Rip the Flesh from My Face Channeled energies. Synonymous with youth. There’s piss and vinegar in your swagger, So delighted you never ran for public office. The black rain invaded our peace of mind. There was turmoil cutting us into halves before we even got close to the Temple Mount. God and gun both words have three letters and have caused way too much bloodshed. You say guns and Gods don’t kill people. I call you on your bullshit as Scientology cuts off the blood to your brain and you give into old resentments disguised as fresh hatred. Jesus suggested we sit down and talk. I refused to even look him in the swallows of his reworked face because I knew his past glories were more formative than anything I’ve so far accomplished in my Leave It To Beaver life. You want to rescue me? You think you can do me some actualized good? You think you won’t be just another letdown as religiosity shakes me to my very core? More fabricated prophets and wolves disguised as golden calves knock upon my door as I turn into one of the The Walking Dead because it’s simpler than revisiting the 12 steps. Poetry refuses to let me off the hook. Either you write what you know or you don’t it’s that simple as you pump more of your photocopied words into the public discourse and are received as the next flavor of the month messiah. I swallowed so many sour grapes I turned purple and reeked of a vineyard. The color purple did not look good on me so I did my best to hide in the anonymous ravings of another false, unrepentant wino. So delighted when you called me on my cell phone and finally accepted me for who I am and stopped rejecting me for not reaching the expectations you laid out like Sunday clothes or a new and more restrictive skin. Charles Cicirella 11/30/15
2.	I’m thinking about you 02:37	lyrics	buy track
I’m thinking about you I’m thinking about you and I don’t even know who you are. I’m thinking about you and I don’t even have a hard on because this isn’t sexual or cerebral, it just is. We "skip the light fandango," simply because we have nothing better to do and that’s alright because sometimes you need to do something before you go crazy from the nothingness weighing you down like a skyscraper or guilty conscience. I’m thinking about you because it beats thinking about all the bad shit going on in the news and how none of us are safe and nobody seems to have a fucking clue. I’m thinking about you because it beats beating off and going nowhere fast as semen covers my hands leaving me even emptier than I was before the sunset. I’m thinking of you, but I won’t call because I don’t want to get into the habit of habitually craving you. You were lying in bed just about to fall asleep when the lines came to you like a body needing to be unburied. I have found myself in a similar situation. Fighting the urge to ignore the poetry, but knowing it doesn’t work like that because when inspiration calls you best rise from your coffin and capture the words before they give up on you. I’m thinking about you in the dark scribbling down the lines as they crawl out of your black raspberry sorbet eye sockets like perverse maggots hungering for papyrus and Glitter-Witch flesh, leaving me even more craven and desperate than I was before starting this poem. Charles Cicirella 12/5/15
3.	“Hope is a terrible thing on the scaffold.” (For Scott) 03:50	lyrics	buy track
“Hope is a terrible thing on the scaffold.” (For Scott) Resist the temptation to tempt yourself. I am thinking about eating some unfrosted strawberry Pop-Tarts. It’s 2:53 AM do you know where your doctor is? An even better question does your doctor give a crap where you are? We sleep in our dreams because we’re too lazy to wake up and crush reality with our unnerving strength and redoubtable courage. We trespass on another person’s virtual reality because we don’t have the good sense to know when to breathe our last breath and turn our backs on our next regeneration. The first time I met you at 3160 I knew you were a Time Lord passing themselves off as a Cut-Out because as we both know resistance is futile when time is your little bitch. Let’s get drunk on shots of Fireball Cinnamon Whisky and pretend we’re none the wiser when the cops are called and we’re arrested for public intoxication. Checked out your band while The Exorcist played in the background. Closed captioning was on as I watched some idiot with a pig mask from the band before you make a real ass of himself. When you hit the stage it was more than I could have hoped for. You had full command of everything transpiring around you as the paramount music whipped the audience into a lather and you pierced our inner-sanctum with your shovelhead intellect and alkaline wit. It was like I was in a time machine watching a friend I knew from a lifetime ago nail himself to the railroad tracks, as the clouds covered us in marshmallow topping and the oncoming train did its best to avoid his white bloated carcass. Every time we meet I have the best time because you have this uncanny ability of making everyone feel at ease with your rogue manners and clownish way of revealing the truth with your unbribable smile and Livewire Obscuria mix. Charles Cicirella 12/6/15
4.	Joni Fairy 03:38	lyrics	buy track
Joni Fairy I would love to write as free as she does. The words come out no self-censorship, filters, dampers or anything crouching between her and her truth. I am in awe just like the first time I spied her on stage from afar. She sings the crap out of any song she chooses to deconstruct because her voice is a guillotine chopping off all the artifice and dimestore antics from a crowd of robotic assassins. Most people prefer their food nowadays farm to table and yet when it comes to art people still seem to get caught up in the same conventional muck revealing nothing of consequence and leaving too many in the dust; high on pain killers and reality TV. Joni proves beyond the shadow of any doubt that some people really are too beautiful for this fractured and embellished world as she carves out a sacred notch among the conveniently damned and the habitually forgotten. Joni Fairy’s art is her life and why so many people do not understand this and think art must only be a hobby never fails to repeatedly punch me in the gut. I would love to climb inside of her depressed and agonized soul and learn from her pain as it tore me apart bit by bit and left me on the cutting room floor like a ripe orphan or unsealed manila envelope. The words emerge and instead of duck and cover she wrestles with her muse like Jacob wrestled with that sneaky and irascible angel. She brings the house down over and over again because the house doesn’t deserve to stand after she finally gets up on stage again and sings her heart out like Edith Piaf did in the streets of Paris as night comes on and the claustrophobic shadows become her only trusted allies. Charles Cicirella 12/11/15
5.	Mind over Matter. Matter over Mind. 01:56	lyrics	buy track
Mind over Matter. Matter over Mind. Everything is so confusing. Nothing in place. You want to change your surroundings? Why? Different place, same set of shit and consequences. Perhaps being a nomad would make more sense. Never staying in one place for too long. The perpetual rock and roller whose Bedouin ways keep them on the not so straight and narrow. Why not? As long as the tickets keep selling why not stay on the road; no direction home, a complete unknown. We think we don’t make a difference. We believe miracles can no longer exist in such well-worn and frayed times. Understand that the mystery is what keeps the wheels greased and the ghosts in the machine satiated and willing to stay out of sight and time out of mind. When the shit hits the fan’s shiny blades that’s always the best time to hunker down because being one of the chosen means you never quit no matter how hot the desert is or how idiotic the status quo becomes. It’s all mind over matter or matter over mind depending on how you choose to look at things and if you’re willing to go that extra mile no matter the conditions attempting to erase you. Charles Cicirella 12/13/15
6.	Home Sweet Home 03:11	lyrics	buy track
Home Sweet Home Another poem. And this is how I feel. I ate three Slim Jims earlier this evening and I can’t stop farting. I’m worried every time I fart there will be Hershey squirts and we know what a mess that can be. Another poem. Another stab at imperfection and the implacable fretting that goes along with the irrevocable aftertaste of an unsatisfying emission. I don’t feel like watching anymore porn, but sometimes even when you’re not in the mood naked bodies are the only thing pulling you out of the sorrowful doldrums. I’m worried she might do something stupid, but I am tired of her not giving a crap about my feelings so I am going to do my best to forget we ever were friends if in fact we actually were ever friends. Home is where the heart is at least that’s what I believe I overheard, but the thing is I haven’t been acquainted with my own heartbeat for longer than I can remember and I’m just about to call it quits because even champions sometimes have to suck it up and die. Another poem. Another stab at whatever passes off as everlasting peace in these days of intolerance dressed up as the new status quo and don’t forget if you’re a billionaire you can shit on anybody you choose because that’s how a successful business is run and then run repeatedly into the ground. I’m worried every time I take a poop that I won’t get out of the bathroom alive. I think about the king of rock ‘n’ roll attempting to crawl out of the bathroom before his heart gave up on him. He was only forty two years old and nothing could have rescued him from the isolation he sought after like another prescribed pill or number one song. Charles Cicirella 12/16/15
7.	Toh kum ha ra (For Tommy) 03:24	lyrics	buy track
Toh kum ha ra (For Tommy) At a loss for words. At a loss for everything resembling mental health and a feeling that I’m grounded in some honest to goodness reality. I think reality is overrated. Of course I haven’t a clue what I’m talking about because I’ve never felt clear. And I am not talking about Scientology. I prefer to leave that bloody cult in the dustbin of history. At a loss for the cries of silence permeating my soul like a rescue dog gone rogue. I was in the wilderness when I first happened upon my inner child. A primeval relic who believed in doing whatever it takes to stay out of sight. And it made all the sense in this invisible world when everything started to break down and you were on the other side of the opaque wall looking through me with your ray gun eyes and a Judgment at Nuremberg resolve that brings me to my knees to this very day. Repeat this mantra thirty three times every hour on the hour and call me in the morning. I’ll be the doctor who’s not really a doctor, but plays one on TV because that’s the only part I could find that would accept me for who I was and not for who I wanted to be. You’re something else and I mean that with all of my lobster bisque heart. Of course my heart isn’t what it used to be. Not in these days of obsolescence and a civil disobedience I cannot quite wrap my head around. I’m tired of being tired and sick of feeling unwell. I am also sick and tired of calling up friends and unloading on them when I’m quite certain there’s no one they want to hear from less. I made my bed up on the floor and now even that floor space is vanishing. I feel like I’m becoming invisible and even the ghosts no longer have any use for me. Charles Cicirella 12/17/15
8.	Wideopen Exhaust (For Don Howland) 04:09	lyrics	buy track
Wideopen Exhaust (For Don Howland) Tear it all down. It makes no difference anyhow. And this poem probably will not impress you, but that’s not my problem and even if it was I wouldn’t own up to it. There is shit and there is shinola and what’s in between is anyone’s guess in these hellfire times where the good guys are on the run and the terrorists rule the roost. It’s no small thing being a rock ‘n’ roll intergalactic luminary especially when the underground has gone the way of New Sensations and the wolf that was once waiting patiently at the door has been fed upon by vampire sheep high on a tenured professor’s blood. You didn’t feel like going anywhere. You wanted to stay in and deconstruct more songs from your fractured brainstem, but oftentimes when the creative juices start to flow you lose all control and it’s no longer up to you who will stay and who will go. Some people have no clue what it even means to make a difference in this corrugated world of snapchat and drones that go bump in the night, while you have always been aware of how out of control things can get once the doors of perception have been cleansed and you go cold turkey from the Ritalin you’ve been taking since you were a hyperactive child and focus was a burden you could not square. It really doesn’t matter if we ever play together because your diddley bow strangulated anti-sounds will reverberate inside my skullbank until I’m either freed from my chains or my chains do me in. And this poem. This poem is just my way of saying thank you for never backing away from the fire because you know better than most if you don’t burn then what’s even the sense of waking up in the morning and taking a big, healthy dump? Charles Cicirella 12/18/15
9.	I’m Standing Here 02:32	lyrics	buy track
I’m Standing Here The poetry stands. The poetry will always stand. Creativity is the only thing that accepts me for who I am. Another Christmas spent alone. I reach out to close friends and they just ignore me. Guess they’re too busy with their own families to stop and see that the darkness has swallowed me whole. Or maybe they just don’t care. And before you think I’m just feeling sorry for myself. Try and understand there is nothing wrong with that. I sit down and instead of watching a movie or working on another project I just feel hurt and I haven’t a clue what to do with this emptiness, sorrow and derision. The work stands. The work is what separates the empty screen from the writing on the wall. Creativity is the only God force I’ve ever believed in because it never asked me to explain myself or found fault with my existence. I’m standing here. All five feet and two inches of me. Standing by the railroad tracks that lulled me to sleep when our self-portraits were painted in fire and alcohol. I’m standing here waiting for the sun to strike me dead so I can finally live again. Charles Cicirella 12/26/15
10.	Say It Now 02:33	lyrics	buy track
Say It Now I’m losing my shit. It’s running down my legs. Say it now or forever hold your peace. And the poetry came to me like a thief in the night. And it saved me from myself and for that I’ll be forever grateful. And the moon hangs in the empty sky spinning its pulp fiction lies as I await another surge of inspiration to kill me dead. I’m not talking about a physical death. I haven’t been physical with anyone for so long I’m not even sure I’d know what to do. As I wrestle this existential crisis to its unforgiving, unrepentant conclusion I swear I’m through blaming myself for not taking responsibility when a gun was placed against my temple and I was given the choice to either give up names or die a sniveling deserter. We drive through the rain like a country song that’s drunk itself into an early grave. We drive until the wheels fall off and burn and that doesn’t even do the trick convincing us we’ve pushed ourselves quite far enough. I became lost in the folds of your poisonous chapbooks long before discovering myself captivated by your smelly sex and obscene gestures of self-gratification and self-hatred and even that didn’t help me to see you for who you really are. I want to say it now, but what if the poetry reveals nothing more than a cathedral full of sheepish believers praying on their rusty knees to God only knows what. I remember the first time I licked your finite pussy and how I did it without a roadmap or some other GPS device leading me to the X that surely marks the spot. I’m losing my shit, but I guess that’s to be expected when I was never very good at making up for lost time or going to bed early enough so that I’m ready for a new day and a new way to finally absolve myself of all these readymade sins. Charles Cicirella 12/27/15
11.	Diabetic Coma 02:10	lyrics	buy track
Diabetic Coma I can’t drink anymore Coca-Cola. All the sugar is blurring my vision. Recently I was told my Hemoglobin A1C test was significant for prediabetes. I’ve never been very good at taking care of myself. I’ve always eaten whatever I wanted and never worried about the consequences. At forty six years old all the junk food is starting to take its toll and I’m not sure I’ll be able to pull myself out of this tailspin. I’ve been warned. I’ve been forced to not only acknowledge, but to read the writing on the wall. And I’m not convinced even that will be enough to make me live my life any differently. It’s not that I’m stubborn. Which I am. Or that I don’t care. Which I’m not entirely certain I do. I’m just not sure if anything I do will be enough to change the outcome and even if it is I’m not convinced that I care enough to throw myself a life preserver and save myself from drowning. I want to get high. That’s what I want to do more than anything right now. And I know that’s not an answer, but oftentimes answers are overrated and problems are the only things that accept you for who you really are. I can’t drink anymore Coca-Cola. And I know there are other things I’ll have to stop before it’s all said and done. Life is a drag, but it’s also the greatest gift we’ll ever be given and I need to figure a way to finally knock some real sense into my stone head. Charles Cicirella 12/27/15
12.	Hebrew National 02:34	lyrics	buy track
Hebrew National I want to eat a hot dog, but not sure that’s a very good idea. I want to go down on you, but not sure you’d even allow me to after how we left things the last time we tried to be intimate and failed miserably. I’ve always dated shiksas and though I’m not sure why that is that’s just how things worked out. It’s 3:01 AM and I’m finding myself hungry. Or maybe I just feel like doing something with my mouth. It’s 3:02 AM and I am quickly losing this battle to not get up and make myself a hot dog. It’s now 3:03 AM and any second I am going to stand up, make myself a hot dog and then watch another episode of The Bridge. And in case you’re wondering I am talking about the original Danish/Swedish TV series and not one of the remakes which are also quite good. I want to talk about something other than food, but what’s the point when I’m finding myself with this unappeasable craving. Will power has never been my strong suit especially when we’re talking about an all-beef kosher hot dog. You can take all of your fillings and whatever other garbage they stick into run of the mill hot dogs and send them to China for all I care because I’m only interested in 100% kosher beef and the deliciousness that goes along with it. I want to eat a hot dog and that’s exactly what I’m going to do. I’m not talking about just any hot dog. No siree bob no normal, boring hot dog will do. And please try and forget what I said about shiksas in the first verse of this poem because there actually were a few Jewish women I dated and they were just as wonderful and just as nice as the non-Jewish women I spent time with. Charles Cicirella 12/27/15
13.	Poetry in the Dark 02:32	lyrics	buy track
Poetry in the Dark Don’t bother turning on the light. There’s nothing worse than a cockroach that can both read and write. I’m afraid it’s time to call your bluff and have you put your words where your pseudo- celebrity has gone. Poetry in the dark is not so bad if you wear pajamas to bed, but if you sleep in the buff you best be ready to show your bum and tummy when up there on that stage. I’m not afraid to take the punches and strike when absolutely necessary. I know too many people who are fearful of conflict while I’ve always believed if it’s not worth fighting for then why even answer the calling in the first place. This isn’t about righteous indignation or who is more full of themselves. It’s about the proof in the pudding and yours never having any "Zip-a-Dee-Doo-Dah." The poetry was in the dark and then it was out in the sunlight and in both cases there was no strong impression made because your wordage lacks backbone and you’ve never put any of your own skin in the game. I’m not here to tear you down. You do that all by yourself with no help from the implacable audience at hand. I’m here to ask you why you ever got into the poetry game in the first place. Was it because you believed it was the one thing you could do with meager effort? Don’t bother with the light I’d prefer sitting here alone in the dark with nothing but your humorless smile reminding me that ignorance really is bliss. Charles Cicirella 1/1/16
14.	Inside the Coliseum 02:28	lyrics	buy track
Inside the Coliseum I am inspired and will die soon. It’s survival of the fattest cat. The poet is the lowest link on the food chain. I swore off Coca-Cola, but I’m still eating plenty of sugar. Mary Poppins called and wanted her umbrella back. The hills are alive with music, Nazis and Mike Tyson’s high pitched shrieking. I don’t believe in sequels, but I watch them every chance I get. I didn’t believe in us, but that didn’t stop me from pursuing you like you were a hound of the Baskervilles. My lips were chapped so I bought some ChapStick. I put a saddle on you because I was bored of riding you bareback. Dreams escape me once I’ve awakened and the coffee seeps into my Semitic bones. I’m not a liar, but that doesn’t mean I don’t stretch the truth on occasion especially when it comes to my exploits during the war or how I once so recklessly loved you. The lions in the Coliseum took one look at me and ran the other way. The Christians on the other hand knew I was no match for them and took me apart piece by piece and stanza by stanza. It’s survival of the most hyperbolic hypocrite. The poet is an endangered species and if you don’t believe me that’s your loss and your stupidity working overtime. Charles Cicirella 1/3/16
15.	COOKIES 02:15	lyrics	buy track
COOKIES My tears taste like cookie dough. My fingers smell like a sacrificial lamb gone postal. My poetry is covered with dung and amniotic fluid. I remember our first meeting and how I thought it would be the first of many. I was wrong like I am about so many things, but that goes with the territory when you’re an artist who sacrifices everything to gain even an inch on the untreated page. Football and poetry have nothing in common even though I believe I’m suffering from a concussion and nothing can heal me except for your melodious touch and Medicaid. I made a vow to an internal life force that I believed to be my higher self. If these internal machinations have malfunctioned and I was lying to myself I’ll do my best to continue with this delusionary outlook and an inner child who refuses to acknowledge my existence. For just a moment let’s turn the tables and pretend that art is as important as sports and love is as universally accepted as violence. Let’s give into our most primordial of instincts and write a new social contract with our hearts and minds instead of with our genitalia and financial statements. Charles Cicirella 1/4/16
16.	Inside this Cage 00:50	lyrics	buy track
Inside this Cage Trying to climb out of this cage. Having no luck. Slavery is a bad idea on its face. I’m a writer. Or a fuck up. Or both. Makes no difference to me. I’m a loser even when I’m winning. Don’t focus on being a victim or a survivor. Just survive. Gotta get out of this place. I’m not built to be someone’s buffet. I’m not equipped to be someone’s Saturday Matinee. I’m a winner. Or a loser. I’m contrary and full of offbeat ideas. Charles Cicirella 1/7/16
17.	Homage to a Road Man (Let It Burn) 01:16	lyrics	buy track
Homage to a Road Man (Let It Burn) I want to write a poem for you. Because I like your hats. And I like your scarves. And I admire how your mind works. Breaking apart everything with your idiot savant sense of indiscretion. There’s nothing you won’t accomplish after the rattle in your right wheel is looked after. I’m saving up whatever money I have so I can buy a ticket to your Magical Mystery Tour. I am so happy I have written this poem. And there’s no reason other than hanging out with you makes me feel alive. And I admire your taste in literature, bourbon and Thai food. And I like your cockeyed optimism on the impending doom and its impending failure. Charles Cicirella 1/13/16
18.	Song For David Bowie 02:45	lyrics	buy track
Song For David Bowie Oh, hear this David Jones I wrote a song for you About a strange old man called Bowie With a voice like stardust and glass His words of lethal endurance They could catapult us into space Turned the multitudes on And put the fashion on a whole lot more Ah, here she comes Here she comes Here she comes again The same sad eyed lady From the broken wing of a nightingale She’ll claw out our third eyes As she comes on like a painted harlequin But a couple of hymns From your deep-rooted memory banks Could lull this Blackstar out of hibernation You gave your mind to every freak who worshipped you At least a vision in my mirror And you sat among a million super models And told them how they feel Then we found your mission statement The paintings are your teenagers now While difficulties are multiplying We’d rather be anxious Dreamy than subterranean Ah, here she comes Here she comes Here she comes again Now hear this David Jones Though I don’t suppose we’ll exchange emails Ask your good friend Bowie If he’d reflect for a while On what could never have been Tell him we’ve lost his Bluebird 78s So they’re writing with ashes and sand Give us back our allegiance Give us back our brood You’re every country’s expatriate Don’t leave us with their saneness Ah, here she comes Here she comes Here she comes again Charles Cicirella