Everyone Loves The Situation: Poetry Inspired by Jersey Shore

As Michael Cirelli explains it, the impetus to write Everyone Loves The Situation, 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.

Famous Pajamas

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
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
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.