jacob erin-cilberto - 2
turning the page betweenam i your autumn?
adding color to your life but ephemeral in your affection soon to be fallen love ignited passion, an afterthought--- like illegal burning of leaves in a district of emotion where my heart would be arrested before the first snowflake of lost sentimentality might hit the ground with frozen goodbyes tossing me care less ly into my winter? Set in Motiona Coney Island boy
riding a youthful Ferris wheel seeing the bottom and the top all at once--- feeling the pinnacle of the world in a night breeze but getting let out where the inner city ground hits so hard, the penniless travelers on a NY tributary that bleeds into back alleys and side streets of gold teeth, and pockets full of back seat sex boosting egos for all of an hour i looked out that five story window at what my life could be but was always too afraid of heights to challenge the world, and i always kept checking to make sure the safety bar was in place so i wouldn't fall out of my dreams in case i ever did make it to the top where fantasies would rock my will trying to scare me into inertia and i would teeter between poverty and riches feeling as close to that hour's honest ride as some hooker who winked at my adolescence when my dad made a wrong turn and we ended up in a part of town i wasn't meant to grow up in. posing for a poetic portraitthe clever metaphor
went to work as usual hoping for a wisp of genius to procure a spot with new contract a raise in pay and a chance for promotion to a new poem but went home that night still riding the cliche train pretentiously written off as just another lame attempt at applicable aptitude by the uninspired poet to advance without qualification to a level suitable for framing A Desk in London—1963
Sylvia Plath left some letters on the table
by the half-smoked cigarette, by the off-the-hook phone by the unused typewriter by the picture of Ted by the half-opened drawer by the rest of the letters she found there by the sweat that poured from her clammy hands which then turned to fists of rage which then turned to angry fingers which then tore up the letters by the half-smoked cigarette by the off-the-hook phone by the busy typewriter as she wore her fingers to the poem's bone emasculating Ted within lines of her wistful words and quicksand sentiment which settled her which embattled her which made her laugh till she cried the echoes of which continued long after she died and could be heard at the table by the half-smoked cigarette by the off-the-hook phone by the confused typewriter by the preserved poem's bone by the picture of Ted with his eyes drawn shut illegible through the broken glass of a reality, Sylvia saw all too clearly as she inhaled her final thought. Reality Show
you taught me how to tragedy---
i learned that spontaneous storms and unexpected death of hearts preempt love as the screen of feelings becomes enveloped in nothingness and those trees left lying in the back yard of our dreams are the uprooted causes of the stripped bark of existence that leaves us vulnerable to that which shows up on no radar screen but funnels itself deep within you taught me how to tragedy and now i am getting so good at it i feel like Thor in a room full of thunder clapping at his misfortunes... Kiss
leaning against the stone wall stoned on you
dizzy me curled into your caress your scent like a soft arm within my sleeve your hair brushing lightly against my bewildered lips as i embrace the profusion of beloved confusion trying to keep my balance. a Line Under the Sun
sons of sons
of sons of fathers of fathers of farther away lives once a blip on a map of genealogy, now a branch on a tree of remembrance and names following names following names some remain the same as leaves of those lives bud and bloom and turn and fall as with all, there will be sons of sons of sons reaching toward a sky the fathers once dreamed of and inherited treasure found on the map of fraternal love a destination always closer than any father or son could ever imagine.
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Lady's Choiceperpendicular to the monotony
a horizontal understanding replaces the boredom with delusions of gargantuan proportion we dance to the ennui as a we wondering why the music stopped so long ago and why our feet keep moving to the memories of when we laughed at the moronic thought that we would ever find erosions of the smiles and a lingering longing to replace the deejay slip our feet into more comfortable shoes untie the awkward pauses that now elaborate our spinning sentences with a finality that no amount of periods could ever punctuate Zoom Zoom
i was not going to write yet another poem
about writer's block, but then, well i heard a poem blocks away revving its engine so loud the window of my mind shook in its loose frame and then i heard the roar of it approaching braced myself for the vision to go with the noise and finally there it was, driving past my house past my pen, past my thoughts passed me shifted gears, dropped a few words in liquidated form from the tailpipe revved again just to taunt me then sped off down the block to another block but kept me in writer's block shock shaking like my window as i started typing a poem about writer's block on my block still hearing that engine roaring a block away in the back of my mind. the leaving
touch is lost in a distant moonlight
even as skin comes so close to where we are and where we want to go but fingers move to make words and longing kisses the rainbow that will come after a rain of missing you drenches the heart goodbye is the culprit that stirs in a dark yard after headlights drift down many roads towards a tomorrow still trying to find its way to come together with yesterday. forget dating services, just order at the counterforget dating services, just order at the counter
I found my e--harmony honey cheating on me with some match.com lover--- pounded the keys with my vengeful fist broke the mirror that was my monitor shattered a reflection showing 29 personality traits that matched hers according to the web site Now I'm down to 14 traits and a black eye love sore knuckles trying to be compatible with a new soul mate I met on "third time's a charm" but after three emails, two phone calls and a date at Denny's thinking I'd hit a grand slam-- I am eating lunch alone profiling the girl sitting next to me about to ask her to share my fries and meet me at first base. my dream A.T.M.
i regret the nickel worth of thoughts i shared
as soon as i got my change something registered, you wanted someone different than me i would always be the guy with the weak money purse the love that jingled in pockets then leaked through the broken seam and now you look for the guy with dollar bills in his eyes and i turn green with envy and a question of "whys" for i am not worth the paper i'm printed on in your eyes or mine if i had a dime i would take the time to ripen into bills for which you would hold out your hand but i would have to beg God for quarters to make myself shiny and new and really, just for you? it's not worth it. i'd rather pawn my thoughts and heart elsewhere and live happily poor of you. Days in Re-Verse
there's a poet
used to cut a country breeze in two a way down Mississippi wanderer wording a path of discrepancy tumultuous life lined in verse i still hear a faint voice but she's moved on now and something un-stated says her poems reside somewhere within a heart that no longer holds a pen within its folds but she is folded in my mind and tucked in its drawer safely winding down heaven's trail. Records
turntable soldiers
at slow speed fall to the vinyl battlefield floor into the grooves of forgotten names and the spinning world plays its loathsome tune as turntable soldiers never reach life's top 40 because they die at 18 and 19 and 20 something with only their labels left to signify expiration dates and the BMI to imply their short span of play. |
