Dementia When I place my ear against my mother’s skull And listen like she’s a seashell at the seashore I can hear the wind howling through her bones I’ve been entrusted this gift and I’m going to use it now Sit still as a stiletto stabbing a topographic map And drain the pus from my Atlas Shrugged brain stem Maybe I’ll strike it rich while panning for goblets of gold and empathy Or maybe I’ll end up at the Las Vegas Rescue Mission again The strip laid out before me like a Beatty treatise for another stalled movie project Let’s keep this dementia between us because not all Manchurian Candidates are ill-informed and not every garden party has Mr. Hughes hiding in Dylan's shoes wearing his disguise I’ve stepped on bigger toes than yours and though there’s no doubt you could buy and sell me what’s the bloody point when everyone ends up buried beneath mounds of paperwork and shovelfuls of dirt I can hear the train imploring my mother to either make up her mind or stop being kind and to simply call it a day Dementia must be taken seriously no matter how difficult it is to face Matters of the heart are hard enough, but when it comes to the brain too many people consciously or unconsciously check out My mother is the toughest person I’ve encountered in this life and even she is helpless at the hands of this silent killer Charles Cicirella 9/2/17

Bare My Soul I don’t bare my soul to anyone including the priests who shuffle up to me with their boxers or briefs down at their weather-report-knees The poetry is as close as I get to reveal any parts of myself and my moral- GPS- compass has been on the blink ever since 911 or 666 or some other series of numbers I cannot quite get my bigger-than-a-breadbox-mind around I’m sick to death of knee jerk reactions and the gossip permeating this city like raw sewage or another Trumpian call for law, order and ignorance on a grander scale than we’ve seen in centuries My mother has lost her will to live as avocados and pudding become both her savior and a grim reaper who she’ll not be able to throw out of her room She’s always been difficult, but what’s going on now is like a super flu that no vaccine can combat because we indoctrinate ourselves against the worst without allowing the best to shine through When she called to apologize after I walked out after being told she’d cancelled another doctor’s appointment I knew this wasn’t my mother anymore because my mother never admitted when she was wrong no matter how much of a corner she was being pushed into I’m going through the five stages of grief and I cannot tell you or myself which stage I’m currently in because I feel like I’ve entered a funhouse where the only ones having any fun are the evil clowns who are torturing everyone These words pour from my corrugated-cardboard-soul as I consider taking a respite if only I could muster up the courage to buy a gun and figure out how to load the bullets Let’s consider this a call to action as another battle plan is constructed from the mindlessness of days on end doing nothing, but wishing things were different and knowing wishing doesn’t make it so nor does it make it any easier Charles Cicirella 8/25/17

Genesis (For Joni) Let’s start at the start when fig leaves were not yet in fashion and modesty was but a twinkle in the Creator’s third eye Why aren’t more people writing and painting with blood these days? I believe it’s been true from the beginning of recorded history that those in the trenches inhaling the mustard gas will always be the first ones silenced and the last ones through the cowboy-swinging-doors I can hear her hacking in the other room and it makes me think of Van’s “TB Sheets” and all he must have gone through just to get her a glass of water These words are my blessed savior and these words always find a way to get me through when another canary in the coalmine is muzzled for its bright colors and its immutable voice You want things to change? Well who doesn’t, but with change comes sacrifice and sacrifice has always been a slippery slope when facing down another biblical storm I was standing by the Wurlitzer carefully selecting the tunes I wanted to hear when she sashayed into the room like a twenties flapper or terror suspect with only allegiance on her mastodon mind We danced like Beautiful Losers have a tendency doing when we knew the end of the world was at hand and we didn’t feel like fitting ourselves into a bathroom stall and fucking like two container ships lost out at sea I held onto her hips for dear life as she swung me around the claustrophobic room and left nothing to the imagination including the birthday suit she was wearing underneath Genesis wasn’t just a band it was a way of life as balls got rolling and Sisyphus sat down and had a smoke We pulled up to the door so she could drop off a check and all we could talk about was the sad state of affairs of another employee dropping their cigarette butt in the mulch I wanted to get out of the car and bitch slap the person, but figured what good would it do when all over the world people are hurting each other with the choices they make and don’t make in the blink of yet another closed and uncaring eye Charles Cicirella 9/4/17

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

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

Light of the Darkness Writing these poems in the light of the darkness and I know nobody cares and I’ve gotten used to that and so much more. It’s like you’re a leper and as your fingers and toes fall off and people see that your body is becoming disassembled they just look on because it’s not happening to them so why should they care? And the advent of social media hasn’t made anything any better because though we may be more directly connected how many selfies or pictures of your big toe or your cat playing the piano do we really need to see before Rome again burns and the Coliseum again goes dark? The light of the darkness has become my only trusted ally as I read yet another post from her about this or that dictator and if you disagree with her she’ll put you down like a nonsensical dog because the tyranny of her own words has become quite intoxicating. From the first poem I wrote when I was fourteen years old I knew something was happening and it wasn’t to be taken for granted because cliché or not the pen is most definitely mightier than the sword and with great power comes an even greater responsibility. The words pour from me like blood from a wound that will never stop bleeding no matter how much pressure is applied. I was a dying man from the second I sat down in front of my sister’s typewriter and for the first time felt comfortable in my own timeline. Resistance is futile because we’re all going to head into the light sooner than later. And the light of the darkness never bears false witness because what fun is there in that especially when your twelve best mates know Jesus personally. Writing these poems under the covers with the help of a flashlight as the words like trail mix accompany me into the wilderness. Charles Cicirella 10/3/16

Pasted (For Dennis) I’m listening With a screwdriver in my ear I’m listening Blood dripping like cauliflower scurvy I once had a stuffed parrot It was during my pirate period In my dreams I paint in rose and blue like Picasso I hope you’re paying attention because I need to show you my wooden leg I wouldn’t throw her out of bed for eating crackers, but I might just toss her onto the floor if she stole my fortune cookie Let’s give up our collective ghosts in the machine and forgive Orwell for whatever mechanical aberrations he turned his back on when giving birth to big brother Letters to Milena just another fucking misnomer I recently got out of something I was informed wasn’t a relationship and though she seemed into me at the beginning by the end I was just another bug I’m levitating With a bloody mary in my hand and a piece of limp celery between my twitching loins I’m levitating When she popped her first pimple in front of me I knew the romantic chickens had all ended up in a bucket in some rural outpost that voted for Trump I lose myself in your “Lonesome Surprise” because I’ve got nothing, but spoiled time on my butcher-paper-thin-hands I was pasted when I started writing this and still that’s no excuse for what’s become of me I’d pull the screwdriver out of my ear, but what would be the point when all the screws have been screwed into the particle board and I’m too tired to attempt driving home That stuffed parrot lost interest and flew the imaginary coop And you just kept staring at me from behind your handicapped-parking-space-eyeballs I wish it was my birthday so I could blow out the candles and make a wish I wish I was a candle and someone would blow me out and make a wish I’m listening Charles Cicirella 8/24/17

I Hear the Wind Chimes Darin I burned my thumb lighting the pipe. Darin I bit the inside of my cheek while watching the third Republican debate. Darin I thought of you while eating a piece of Marie Callender's Razzleberry Pie with a couple of scoops of Breyers® Coffee Ice Cream. “Now even bolder with 100% Dark Colombian Coffee.” Poetry is my gateway drug. Not heroin, Christina Ricci or bath salts. I like to snort a couple lines of blank verse and then get all cozy in front of the old white 32 inch Panasonic television watching TCM. I’ve discovered the commercials only put off the inevitable and I need all the crushing finality one lonely, overtly sensitive Jewish poet can handle. Don’t get me wrong I wouldn’t mind Christina Ricci on all fours looking back at me mouthing the words “ride me like your little pony”, but at this point I’d settle for a couple primo Quincy episodes and maybe a Cagney and Lacey to cut the testosterone levels. I remember the time I heard my half Japanese girlfriend break wind. She was in the bathroom and even with the door closed I heard a little trumpet sound and knew somewhere an angel had just gotten their wings. Darin I just took a swig of Coca-Cola and I would apologize for all this shameless product placement, but I’m thinking making I can get an endorsement deal and not have to wake up and make the doughnuts or bagels ever again. I’m sure it takes all kinds of athleticism to hit a little white ball into a hole or shoot a B-ball into a hoop or take a pigskin and throw it down the field while a defensive line attempts to blitz you out of existence, but please try and understand it’s no walk in the park sitting in front of a blank screen, waiting for what seems like a miracle to come. I’ve never thought much of athletes and I believe that’s because they receive so much attention while writers and really all artists are treated if they’re lucky like second class citizens and if they’re not so lucky simply ignored because who has the time, patience or attention span to stop and read your poem or listen to your latest song or come by the gallery after work to check out your latest art installation. Thanks for listening and for giving a shit even if you’re only pretending. I’m going to take another hit and this time I’ll try and do a better job when it comes to crashing and burning. Darin I know neither one of us is helpless and yet still sometimes this feeling of paralysis is too much to cope with and I find myself holding my breath a little longer than I should. Charles Cicirella 10/30/15

Deconstructed (For Ted Kane) deconstructs from a to z leaving nothing in between rosary beads diddley bow mining for a heart of gold blood diamond cadavers rotting in the disillusioned sun it’s high time we stopped pussy footing around you wanted a pussy grabber and chief well you got it now whatcha gonna do? deconstruction devalued in the eye of a narcissistic god killer able bodies only get you to the grave beyond that it’s all a jump ball i’m so down and out when looking up all I see is my proctologist in the rearview he deconstructs because there’s nothing better to do with his hands he deconstructs because peeling the onion with his guitar time of the assassins tool is the only effective method of pulling the band-aid from the scab he deconstructs because all of our lives depend on it including his own Charles Cicirella 9/5/17

Don’t Step Outside the Bounds of Reality (For Roky) He just wanted his ham sandwich Nothing is ever written in stone Not even the Ten Commandments The Bible will not save you Look how, in the sequel, it treated Christ Jews continue to get a raw deal There is no master race Though what’s so ironic Is how those who spew that toxic garbage are the most ignorant animals on the planet No one concentrated in the Concentration Camps People just waited around to die One more example of how might never makes right especially when you’re dead wrong on every single issue I’m not convinced the Summer of Love was about anything other than getting high Step outside the bounds of reality and you’re lucky if you don’t get punched in the face Break through the Doors of Perception and be prepared to be rewarded with more riches than you could ever imagine Charles Cicirella 9/16/17

“Life isn't measured by clocks.” My heart’s beating like a grandfather clock missing its grandmother clock Time sits on my face like a Jewish ghetto in Warsaw in Europe during World War II Nothing going right as our possessions are stripped from us as storefront windows are smashed in and if we’re blessed attics become our only safe refuge Caste systems are fucking bullshit as is anyone acting superior because of their supposedly pure blood Go ahead and burn a cross on my front lawn because I can no longer be associated with white people and all the privilege that they perpetuate in the name of God We ran the Native Americans off their land because we wanted it for ourselves and wiped out the buffalo for sport and none of it even today makes a lick of sense as we celebrate a rainbow coalition and go on and on about what we’re thankful for Trading punches with the champ or trading punches with another loser that pretends they’re undefeated when actually the fights they’re fighting are like taking candy from a big, disgruntled baby Learning more and more that giving up control is the only way out of this place as abandonment issues rear their ugly head and disassociation zaps you like a bolt I wanted to love you or at least like you for who you are until realizing you’re not even close to what you seemed as a Biblical flood wreaks havoc on our tick-tock lives My heart’s beating like a hammer right out of my Playboy centerfold chest as I attempt to dial back my rage and stop dressing you down for your unwillingness to change Time repeatedly sticks its fingers up my ass like a proctologist with ADHD and I’m none the wiser because I’m always up for a challenge especially when it comes from the backend Nothing going right as I listen to the Gestapo wind and wish I was more than just a wooden puppet who wishes he were a real boy Charles Cicirella 9/18/17

Because Because making a difference actually does mean something even if explaining it is easier said than done. Because we can do more than just coexist. We can prosper and the greed and the gluttony and the outsourcing can end with a smile instead of a glower. She said I was being snarky, passive aggressive, cranky and manipulative when nothing could have been further from the truth. When she texted I really was on the toilet with the squirts from something I’d eaten the night before and I’m still feeling crappy today. Because we make better lovers than fighters and if you need proof just look in the mirror and be careful not to fall in love with your reflection like Narcissus did once upon a time. Proving that believing in your own press can be more than fatal, it can be both infectious and insatiable like Salted Caramel Bourbon BonBons. I’d make an example of myself, but what good would that do when I fall through every crack laid out before me like a child’s chalk drawn hopscotch course or the entrails from your favorite flattened roadkill. Because sometimes just mouthing the words I love you is plenty good enough while other times even a Cheshire grin will not get you through the mirror. I know I don’t belong and I don’t pride myself on that outsider status, but I’ve also started to understand sweating the small stuff will only you get you five to ten in the house of detention or if you’re even more unlucky nearly fifteen years of feeling stuck with no clue of how to break free and raise yourself from the dead. I write these words and then if I’m really lucky Mr. Kane will ride in on his bay horse and lay down a riff that will fuse my words together and make this watch tick. Because going it alone doesn’t make a lick of sense when you have a second pair of hands willing to pitch in and make the trains run on time. Because “I once was lost but now am found, was blind, but now I see.” Because truth is stranger than fiction and once you have accepted that we can move on and find some peace in the arms of another Manchurian Candidate. Charles Cicirella 11/8/15

Vinyl (For Kyle) Cut into the grooves. Indelicate truth. Seventies Califone awash in blood and gore. You’re a swell guy. And I don’t meet many swell guys. Wish we could eat chicken quesadillas together and forget we were ever wanting. Pressing the flesh. Honey Jack lies drip from your tongue like Amityville Horror flies. That’s not you and it never will be no matter how often you sit in your room spraying paintball bullets onto a wounded prairie canvas. I love visiting you at Lost Weekend. It’s a home away from home which is quite incredible when I’ve never had a real home to speak of. You’re a long lost brother and a newfound friend and when we happened upon each other in Noblesville I knew we were onto something. Let’s go the distance before this record starts to skip. Let’s go to the Hotel California before the voices down the corridor destroy us through their pathological need to be right, wrong or dead on arrival. I’m imagining what it would be like having a dance party with you. You’d bring all the right records and we’d both feel like teenagers again for bludgeoned seconds at a time. Charles Cicirella 1/20/16

Monolith I want to communicate without language. Only painted music stands between us and the grave. We’re muses subsisting between the silence and the Crucifixion. I was lackadaisical. Bereft of luster and in need of reshaping an unsharpened intellect. You did everything in your power to recreate and redesign my failing chassis. I wasn’t born yesterday. I was born forty six yesterday’s ago and still my conception of time is short-sighted. You’re a star teetering on the tongue of a God refuting worship and defying limits. There is a Monolith. Revered in stillness and resurrected like an aboriginal savior. Do you remember when sign language dripped from our fingers like cow’s milk? We must learn to communicate with textures and tectonic shifts. It was the Earth moving between us when first making contact. We’re the only thing in this indecipherable world of sleeping robots that’s conscious of death. Charles Cicirella 3/3/16

“He told the High Sheriff” Thirty pieces of silver If you believe the stories If you believe one red headed disciple can bring down the world Mary was also a disciple Quite possibly the one closest to the fold Of course she gets less press because of the blood running out from between her angelic thighs Get ready to bury one more civilization under newspaper clippings and the eyes of the dead The Nazi’s made lampshades out of Jews’ skin because they had nothing better to do with their spoiled time and loved the unclouded light pouring from a victim’s undeniable suffering They called them Concentration Camps which was a bold faced lie. Leave it to the Germans to fill up mass graves with irony alongside the bodies I’m not writing this to shock anyone and doubt anyone is even bothering to read it The cave drawings must be sketched upon the walls even if no one is paying attention and Ben Carson decimates the projects because poverty is a choice according to his out to lunch brain I’m no prophet and refuse to cover myself in excrement and stand in the center of town yammering on about this or that coming apocalypse We had it coming just like every empire before it that believes it was too good to fail and too good to take care of its less fortunate Don’t get me started on the hypocrisy of Christian Family Values and how every serpent believes fervently that they are God’s favorite We all have a little or a lot of the Devil inside of us and until we start to accept this truth as self-evident we’ll continue to fail like the braying donkeys we’ve always been Charles Cicirella 7/20/17

Just the Tip Burned the tip of my finger Lighting the glass pipe I guess it’s the price of being a stoner Always wanted to believe irresponsibility was a virtue Here’s my rub if fucking little boys in the butt Isn’t a cardinal sin then pray tell what is? Drank the two cans of Coke in the frig Now I want more because it only takes one can To become addicted to the Black Death that is Coca-Cola And I wanted to drink lemonade with you beneath a shade tree, But there’s only the lemons of my life and shade is non existent In this Donnie Darko darkness Maybe a sugar free grape Popsicle will do the trick If I can get passed the flavor of artificial sweetener I’m not a rat in a maze even though Pavlov is my God I know the grass is running out I’d be a liar if I said that wasn’t bringing me down The genius of being a genius is catch and release Charles Cicirella 10/24/17