jacob erin-cilberto - 3

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A tryst indited in senryu 

​second degree burns
from your consummate kisses
lips don't want to heal


exploratory
arriving at your neckline
advancing to depths


the maneuvering
balanced near the precipice
i fall into you


sighs and cigarettes
smoke rings of contentment waft
moments replayed 
​

before middle age braces

spry 17 year old lips
pucker
search, meet
in the middle as tongues play roulette
lucky numbers
numb the knees
dizzy dares
and emotions spent on the wheel
of adolescent love
we all won back then,
didn't know losing in our naive gambling clothes
which often got partially shed
in the back seat of teenage exploration
the lips being the gateway
arms securing stance
money lost with later wisdom
but at the time,
that 1969 Olds Casino
needed no fake I.D.
to get in.
​

his own house

a man of age
wisdom filtering out of context
the wrinkles remember,
he doesn't
 
skin tight parables
a Jesus recluse at this juncture
his eyes on fire,
his heart burnt by the torch
he lived with for so many years,
and the smoldering life that makes
him feel trapped,

a bonfire of vanity seceding
from the union of his mind

his pride celebrates another year of existence
he only wishes he could recall
what year this is

and where the other half of his life
has moved to

still he clenches his fist
the emptiness within,
blows out the candle or two of regret

holds on to a feeling that no longer
inhabits his heart
but knows better than he
it lived there for nearly a century

he sheds a tear
and it extinguishes the last candle
the one he wished upon
to see her again.
​

turning into Bukowski

i fell in love with...
pastured parliaments, mad rivers of righteous clarity
autumns in New England
and Eiffel Towers in the Bronx
that paled in comparison

to that foreign one that wasn't surrounded
by graffiti
and hop scotch chalk lines
and disheveled poets
on street corners
trying to sell their words for a few drinks

and that spit shine
fella dreaming of collared shirts
and brazen ties
bought for the company Christmas affair

and maybe a back room mama
who had one too many,
and was giving something besides
a grab bag present,
or maybe she wasn't

and then i blinked
and fell out of love with...

imagined pretense
subway thoughts, underground morals
teenage angst
dreams of Europe
 
and strolled ever so pretentiously
into a 9 to 5 existence
sweating ink onto pages
of routine banishment
an exile into a normal life
 
begging for another fantasy
then settling for a drink or three
to forget who i really am.

a puff of pensive reflection

we shared cigarettes
and the smoky illusions
of the 60's
ideals real in the heart
we loved unconditionally with conditions

emotions became wistful, wishful thinking
as you retreated into your yuppy-ism
and my hair got a little longer
a bit more disheveled 
like the veins in my ideology

you spoke the goodbyes first
and i felt the movement waning
with little protest,
i lit up a few more drags of the past
and

finally put the pack of desultory dreams away
where it and you belonged.

  
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anthem for the 90's from
​a singer who lost his voice

i bell bottomed out in the 70's
smoked weed in a swamp of demarcation
crossing lines, inhaling propaganda
and blowing smoke into idealistic circles
 
loved a girl a lot like me
until she became establishment's step daughter
in furs and other pompous adornment
not meant for me---
 
and i stepped down
from a podium of delusion
 
and saw life as it was
after the marches seceded from the causes
and the posters left out in the rain of apathy
 
soaked to the skin of dejection
i slipped out of the jeans
slipped into the dockers
where freedom's boat failed to launch
 
and got sucked into the movement
that was no longer thirsty
for what mattered
just for what would get us to the 80's
 
in one piece
rather than one peace.

the writing on the wall

vigilante poem
with jangling syllables in its pocket
in a dark subway station---
the flashing figurative language
posing an enticing threat

we get hammered on rhyme
then drop a dime in the slot
to take the ride
mugged by morose meaning
hidden under a trench coat
of tyrannical rants

i saw you get off, carrying your terse verse
beneath spelunking semantics
knowing it wasn't the dangerous city of cause
you were scared of,

it was that the train might pause
at my station,
and you were afraid you might aim
your love at me

and pull the trigger.

In the Temple of Template

semantic stilettos
do some fancy walking
jabbering
then wobbling
patent leather lethal words

hobbling into the memory bank
to withdraw a stratagem
of dreamy theme
but the shine is clouded
by the stares of the bare
minded poet

a punctuation punk
confronts his creativity
but to fashion a formidable
reply to impress the muse
the poet steals the polished pantheon

writes a few preachy words
and then curls up in his coffin conundrum

suddenly realizing he isn't even 
in dead form yet.

a shattered cafe

wasn't on the menu as an appetizer,
a serving of bullets,
wasn't on the program as a song,
the sounds of screaming fans
but not for the band,
wasn't meant for the poor people of Paris
to linger on the streets
in forever sleep,
 
the soccer ball deflated
the stadium suddenly silent
with mute explosion,
 
a goal of sorts,
but the agenda improvised, realized, compromised
and the question of which coach?
 
who sent in the play
that set Paris reeling under a red Moon
 
there will be no June
in the hearts tonight
November will be the only month
 
they will remember.
​

Used Lanterns

sure i bathe in moonlight
when the mood suits me

but darkened patches of life
are my corner luxury
that cool feeling of black frost
i can almost lick with fervent tongue
as i silently mouth words i could never write down
on star pads,
too much grandiose suffering made public
as other lovers kiss under those same tablets
with my words breeching their contract
and blame ricocheting off the blank walls of my heart

sure i'll strip down to just the bare letters
and pour myself into an ocean of comforting glow
but that will only assuage your bulbous pain---

i instead, must burn in the rays
of an unkind orb
seeking to unclad me of my own sorrow
make my poems run naked
and embarrassed in front of people
i don't know
who only want to use me to see into themselves.

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