Jacob Erin-Cilberto
Originally from Bronx, NY, Jacob Erin-Cilberto now lives in Southern Illinois. He teaches English at John A. Logan and Shawnee community colleges and does poetry workshops for the Heartland Writers conference and Southern Illinois writers guild. He has been writing and publishing since 1970--His work has appeared in Cafe Review, Pegasus, Skyline Magazine, Hudson Review, Splizz, Remark and many other publications. erin-cilberto was nominated for a Pushcart Prize in Poetry for 2006 and 2007 and this past May published his tenth book of poetry, titled "against the current."
The following works are copyright © 2008. All rights reserved. No distribution or reprinting in any form whatsoever without written permission from the author.
3 A.M., Restless Metaphor
three sheets to the wind
a bedful of poetry
fornicates with extreme sighs
big words being jammed inside stanzas
almost a rapist's fantasy,
the rhymed skin turns cold to the touch
the mind somewhere else
the keyboard shivers,
the perpetrator tries to get his vocabulary to turn over
respond
to the moment,
but his breath is repulsive
the screen closes its eyes
pretends to be sleeping
and in the morning
there is only an empty page
and lack of fulfillment on both sides
of the bed
Letter from a Universal Soldier
quicksand brevity
flying on grounded wings
ephemeral eternity
winks in disassociated clarity
bayonets dance on peaceful battlefield
the numbers grow smaller
evacuation infiltrates
as wise men follow a star
to its conclusion
and surrender burns its white flag
till the colors wave in the eerie calm
and earth has consumed
the last warrior
The Fries Are Sill Frozen
for an extra 50 cents
you can have a larger glass of tears
we'll super size your pain
put you on the long term plan
stuff your emotions into a non-interest
checking account so you may become
totally apathetic,
the mean green love machine
crushed ice, cold feelings
washing down the hardcore ugly
napkins to dab the sores
here's your bill, i'm closing up
sorry if you're still hungry
we've run out of love
Vending Machine Rationale
crazy rain,
soggy George Washingtons
won't fit in the slot machine
where i pick e-43 to get my fix
of cynical chips....
wash them down with some diet water
also 1.25----oh my god...
expensive rivers these days flowing into bottles
pure lust?
pocket change dust/
let me render myself back to evolution's
U-Turn
i'm the flipside of a Jack Daniels A-Side
drink me up, i'm used up
dehydration sets me in raspy motion
throat sour, tongue tied debate with the razor blade
is tomorrow worth it?
and even if so
do i have the petrol to get there
can't afford to fill the tank
unless i just get tanked at the nearest bar
cause at least there,
i get free pretzels
with my hangover
Old Red
i'm the slovenly dressed
pock-marked face
at the end of the bar
the scent of street essence
exuding in tantamount fashion
the buttons of my sleeves
chewed off like the edges of my nicotine
stained rap sheet,
a morsel for you to try if you dare,
say "hello"
i'll move my beer so you can sit down
with the ......clown
who scares himself worse,
without the make-up
i won't look you straight in the eye
the mirror behind the bar's too close
and my past keeps sneaking up behind me...
share a coaster, we'll slide down memory lane
the grease will wash off,
underneath my kisses are as sterile
as the clean new glass the bartender just brought me
Italian Cream and an Oldsmobile Dream
i remember 16 candles
when bones were young and restless
and back seats were soaked with tenders
flaming
on a moonlit, unpaved road,
radio blasting songs that weren't oldies then
but we are now,
and vinyl has been replaced by plastic
and my credit card heart
has been too many times reissued
rejected,
cut up
and blown out
like the 16 candles dripping upon
the hot blooded icing clinging
to youthful cake,
and the back seat mistake
changed our lives forever
