As Michael Cirelli explains it, the impetus to write
, a collection of poetry inspired by MTV’s Jersey Shore, came pretty naturally to him: “Everything about it spoke to my artistic, personal and political sensibilities. I’m a bit obsessed with reality TV, mostly shows like Top Chef, Project Runway, etc., but my girlfriend also reeled me into tragedies like The Hills, and the various Housewives… so to see my brethren put on center stage was extremely compelling. People that looked and spoke like my cousins, (but not as cool), now had a forum to express how the American Dream affected/infected their lives.” Click through to check out a few choice excerpts from the book, which hit shelves just in time for tomorrow night’s season three premiere!
Pauly D Lives Up to The Lifestyle
There’s a gateway, an arch Over Atwells Avenue, The entrance to Italian America, And from it hangs “La Pigna,” The pine comb, A traditional symbol of abundance For our people, Who came to Federal Hill And marched down this street Each Columbus Day, Who made bread and played bocce In the Nocabulabet Bocce League, Who hauled coal and branzino and Valeted cars and delivered “apizza” (In rain, sleet and slurs), Up and down this avenue That if followed far enough Leads to the columned homes Of Johnston—and lodged within Those gaudy columns Is the understanding that we made it, As if getting from Providence to Johnston Was like Sinatra conquering New York, and all along Atwells Ave The New World’s billboards Told us what we wanted What we needed (To fit in), as we polished our Cadillacs and we wrapped Egyptian gold Around our necks, As we mistranslated the hard tongue Of L’America and became Our own new breed, abundantly Gelled abundantly tanned, Perfecting the lifestyle In front of a beveled mirror, Mistaking a pine comb For a pineapple.
Not Turtle Island, nor Sedona’s Vortex, but Seaside Heights, But Atlantic City and 3 sevens, From Staten Island to the Northern Kingdom, from a line of Remuses, And a branch of suckling wolves, Her people who are not her People, but she suckled anyway, She took names regardless, wedged A half moon beneath The Pouf (A headdress) of black silk, black As the pupil of Horus—two arcs Above the brows, two ancient Hieroglyphs meaning: hills for olives Hills for lemons hills for sacrifice, But no temple, no monastery But shore house, no Dharmasala And prayer beads, nor Easter Island But a golden cross, still sacred work Here, still 16 symbols, as she paints her face, As she clips, clamps and fastens Each adornment before heading to The United States Patent and Trademark Office on February 7th, before forking over A stack of pyramids and making That name hers.
There were boom mics & reporters hovering over the most famous pajamas, John & Yoko each holding a flower singing “Give Peace a Chance” in the presidential suite in white cotton. Ironically, band mate Paul composed “Yesterday” in bed (not Bed-in), and woke up hung over with a shadow hanging over him and no pajamas, just skin. When MLK had a dream, his pajamas should have been Kevlar, instead of clay pigeon. Notorious B.I.G. never dreamed hip-hop would take it this far as he slept on his mother’s couch in a flannel onesie, the pestle in his stomach grinding down sardines, the zillion stars over St. James & Fulton waving their hands like deaf applause. Friedrich August Kekulé von Stradonitz dreamt a perfect benzene structure in starched white polyester and Barack Hussein Obama inherited dreams from his father in b-ball shorts doubling as pjs. Snooki’s famous pajamas are silk leopards, her slippers pink bunnies, and the comforter she pulls over her pouf is soft as New Jersey stack smoke when she closes her eyes after another long shift at the party and dreams of the ultimate guido.
Gorilla Juice Head Rhymed Couplets
He’s a lamb inside a gorilla suit. His Shepherd is a dumbbell.
He drinks a Super-Sized gorilla juice. Flash a needle and his bum swells.
He’s a doe behind a lion mask. An aardvark snorting Creatine.
Ground horse hooves in his powderflask. Flip-flops, wifebeater, and a Jesus piece.
His stomach copy cats an alligator’s. His arms are wide as Roman columns.
He revs a Lincoln Navigator. Beneath his roar’s a squealing possum.
Grizzly pulp, the rind of sharks— Ripe hormones for his smoothies.
He makes his cat calls with a bark. GTL’s his daily routine.
A tanning bed burns brain cells. Gel formalde-hides a piglet.
His body’s hard as walnut shells, But the nut is soft as giblets.
He’s a koala in a rhino tux. He’s an ostrich with a hammerhead.
In every single sport he sucks. He compensates by lifting lead.
Before the meat went to his skull, He was scrawny little newt.
After the twinkle in a bull, He was a zygote in a mom suit.
The drama on the dance floor — 108 magnums of hairspray, the pumping of fists like the disco ball was a speed bag they were trying to reach — was much more interesting than Mike “The Situation” gulping a ghost-faced Guidette under an electric palm tree stage right, keeping the candle lit inside the globe they’ve made of their mouths — and I think about how we’ve been inoculated against intimacy, made making out cliché merely the B-side to getting laid — till we hardly even notice the fire in the corner, the hot coils of tongue melting their faces off until there is nothing left to remember.