Beyond the broken door
those I could not ignore
Friends, though downtrodden
hearts far from poor
Beyond the broken door,
a flourishing garden
and hope,
washed ashore

Beyond the broken door,
poverty, famine and war
Beyond the broken man
too far the distant shore
Within the broken man
rests the fragile core
I think I understand though
Our world begins at home,
the home nearest the shore

“Isn’t life strange / A turn of the page / A book without light / Unless with love we write…



Each one of us is inspired by forces beyond ourselves; each one of us finds inspiration through acts of others, through nature, through art, music – the list goes on.

Inspiration is a catalyst of growth, success, happiness and without it, we would be nothing but mere entities, devoid of soul, devoid of substance…But always remember this: It begins with God!!!!

Ricky J. Fico

I’ve been called upon to revive my 3 manuscripts“Moods Over A September Moon”/ Beyond The Broken Door”/“A Turning of the Tides.”

My 3 manuscripts follow my journey – from childhood to adulthood and the revelations given me that I have been called upon to share with You! I am offering here a very open window. You are welcome to this window. I ask of you to keep an open mind, an open heart as I had done throughout my own (sober) life.

Caught in the eye of the hurricane I was targeting to die /  Then caught by the eye of God, He targeted me to live!

A few people have told me that my story is a cross between Angela’s Ashes, The Catcher In The Rye and This Boy’s Life.

I don’t know about all that. All I know is that my story is one that I was born to write.

This is not only my story, but in large part, our story. This is a story about family, about sisters and brothers, mothers and fathers.

This is a story about struggle, failure, rejection, sadness and fear. This is a story about selfishness, greed and ignorance. This is a story about love, compassion, happiness and understanding. This is a story that I was born to tell. This is not only my story but, in large part, this is your story too. I know it, I just know it, probably more than I had ever known anything before.

This video depicts the memoir in mood and illustration.


This morning, unlike most mornings, I’m at a loss for words. I’m staring at the blank screen, hypnotized by the blinking cursor. It is wearying heavy upon my eyelids. I’m falling . . . falling . . . falling. Now, I’m asleep.

Ah, a dream! Thank you, my dear God for such a vivid dream. And, the actors you had chosen to star in this dream — perfect. Simply, perfect!

Mother, dressed in white. Beautiful is she, her hair curling down the sides of her sculptured face. Father, with his Herculean physique, standing tall atop the pedestal. Marbled and chiseled, he plays the pivotal role.

Brother, my dear brother, giggling under the apple tree. He is tempted but he resists. I am grateful. I must watch him with a careful eye. Brother has a bigger appetite than most.

My older sister, the nursemaid to the world, wrapped in fine linen, cradling the infant, rocking the elderly. Smiling is she, I’m so proud.

My younger sister, drifting across the river, upon the raft of ancient log. A freer spirit is she, but knows not the current. At any moment it could shift. I am concerned. Big brothers must always be concerned about their little sisters.


bEYOND the broken door

My name is Roman Cicero. I had been homeless for a while now and this is my story. I hope not to offend anybody by my language or an occasional angry word. I am only human. I am not a preacher; I am not a saint. Like you, I have my ups and I have my downs. I am only human. I live on the streets of Chicago. It is by choice! Others I had met, they didn’t have a choice. Many were forced to the streets. This is their story. This is our story…

 “What the “F” is wrong with you?” This B.S. question I hear much too often. Almost as often as this one: “Why don’t you get a life, you fricking bum!” 

I’ll tell you what’s wrong with me. My shopping cart was stolen last night. Along with my bag of beer cans and the last of my personal belongings –a pair of baggies, two raggedy sweatshirts, a few pairs of crew socks, the old pair of combat boots, my toothbrush. And my canteen– the only thing I had managed to save from the war. I feel sick to my stomach because my canteen’s gone. That’s what’s wrong with me.


And why don’t I get a life. This is my life. And I’ll tell you one thing — to acquire this life of mine I didn’t beg, steal or borrow. Call me a bum, go ahead. I didn’t take anything away from you. You don’t support me. Your tax money doesn’t do a damn  thing for me. I am self-supporting. Like it that way.

And I have peace of mind, knowing that I don’t have anything to contribute to your bullshit wars, bloated bureaucracies nor do I help finance your Park Avenue Apartment or the upkeep of your chauffeured limousine. Go ahead, call me a bum. And I will call you an ignorant fool. Fair enough.

To use this city library’s computer I donate my time. A fair exchange. And before the library closes, I clean the bathrooms, take out the trash. I like to keep busy.

Lucinda the Librarian told me as long as I manage a bath every once in a while and contain the talking to myself to a whisper I am no bother. And she appreciates my help. And I appreciate hers. A fair exchange. Sometimes Lucinda lets me go around and put the returns away.