Sleeping muse after Brancusi, with commentary

Monday, March 24, 2014

Sunday, March 09, 2014

“People brutalise everything” (Thomas Bernhard)

BY BIBLIOKLEPT

People brutalise everything. They get up noisily, go about noisily all day, and go to bed noisily. And they constantly talk far too noisily. They are so taken up with themselves that they don’t notice the distress they constantly cause to others, to those who are sick. Everything they do, everything they say causes distress to people like us. And in this way they force anyone who is sick more and more into the background until he’s no longer noticed. And the sick person withdraws into his background. But every life, every existence, belongs to one person and one person only, and no one else has the right to force this life and this existence to one side, to force it out of the way, to force it out of existence. We’ll go by ourselves, as we have the right to do. That’s part of the natural course.

From Thomas Bernhard’s novel Concrete.


Sorting forks

Monday, October 28, 2013
Sorting forks It's not Like I don't have a million things to do . Who bought all of these? Who will ever use them? I think I sprained my shoulder, no... It's the collar bone. They should have helped me with this, it's unreasonable to ask, I am only one person! One day I will live with no forks! Bastards!

3 poems..................

Monday, October 21, 2013
Pleased to have 3 new poems published on Nic Sebastian’s new “The Poetry Storehouse”. http://poetrystorehouse.com/2013/10/19/peter-ciccariello-poems/ Take a listen to Nic Sebastian’s audio recording of my poem “Today is your advocate”

A Misread

Thursday, February 07, 2013
A Misread by Peter Ciccariello - from the Whalesound archive read by Nic Sebastian

Albert's Landing

Saturday, February 18, 2012
I've taken to swimming Little Albert's Landing,
From jetty to jetty in the late afternoon sun.
I can do it one way,
In one hundred modified backstrokes,
More or less,
Always keeping the sunlight in my face
And the empty hill that cradled the Bell estate on my left,
Gardiner's Island out across the bay on my right.
Literally no one on the beach or in the water for that matter
Except me, thousands of sand eels and wild-eyed baby blues,
A family of piping plovers pecking at the tide line and an osprey circling
And waiting, waiting, waiting.
I listen to my breathing, then, as I swim,
I listen to my heart beat, the sound of the water as it swirls about me,
The bright light dancing on the water,
Free-floating in this eclectic sea of hope, even as I struggle to accept these forces
That bind me to this earth,
To this pulsing sea, to this surging life around me,
To my own cell of pain.

Later, lying on a flat rock, giving my back it's heat and hardness, yes,
A man can be blind in so many ways,
Leaving his life to a future that will never come,
Circling and waiting, waiting, waiting
While all of the world pounds and swells beneath him,
Calling his name softly in its profound eternity.




Mud

Saturday, February 04, 2012

The intertidal smell of mussels opening and closing as the skin pulls back. 
The black mud speckled with piss clam tunnels. 
Boys with flat sticks wiggling bare toes, a jab and thrust, clams in the air.
 Jabbing and thrusting is what boys do, piss clams flying through the air. 
Fiddler crabs peering out sideways from their hideouts. 
The boys scurry sideways to mimic the crabs, throwing long ribbons of seaweed at one another, in their hair, slapping their faces, flying though the air.
There were girls here the night before, girls and music. 
The boys swirled through their faint, sweet fog. 
The scent opened something hidden. 
The deep inside them mixed with the fog and doors opened everywhere. 
There are not always enough locks or keys to go around. 
Some of the doors are closed forever. Some doors are hanging off their hinges. 
Someone said once that everything has been thought of.

The boys think of these girls over and over again, they think of almost nothing else, they dart here and there after fiddler crabs as the bright light beats down on their bare skin and they think of girls. 

To stand on the water, to stand in a boat in the water, the salt drying in white streaks on their skin, their skin that longs for the girls hidden in the sweet, dank mud of desire before they even know it. 

Before they even know it they are thinking of girls again and again, even as they are covered in mud and seaweed and laughing sideways at each other they are still jabbing and thrusting though the sweet, sweet fog again and again and even, again.