Poems and Poetry

Jacob Erin-Cilberto

Just Me and a Few Words Packed in My U-Haul | A Poem by Jacob Erin-Cilberto Jacob Erin-Cilberto

Sinister patches of black tar
a roadway of eternal sink holes
the wonder of future
the wonder of you

romance me away from this rock
moss is growing under my poetry
the ink in ebony dress
levity is the broken line in the middle
of the interstate,
but my state of mind never passes you

I just hang back, hang-dog expression
eclipsed vision
the sun is a fox chased by the hounds of cumulus

even the Beat poets would think their poems cheerful
compared to taxi driver poets who get jumped
in their cabs with random tips–
most saying “give up, the world has no exit ramp for this”
Robert Creeley has a patch over both eyes now,
Plath is dying to stay in the institution
even Sexton thinks she wants a two-car garage

keep your motor running people
because others are shooting off their motor mouths
and exhausting the tolls
too expensive to drive the keyboards

the wonder of future
the wonder of you
put me in a trunk with the old keepsakes
and letters from Sylvia
and the poems Sexton wrote when she was good
ask Robert to come home
even with the patches
he might be able to see
what we are missing–
Stop signs pleading
to us to put a brake to the madness.

Imploding Voices Warn | A Poem by Jacob Erin-Cilberto

the New York boy
found his country falling in upon itself
like an earthquake stricken high rise

the empire state’s enigma
shaken to his core
as the mountains disappeared

and the water tasted stagnant
the Midwest called his name
as he spit out foul liquid
from his beleaguered brain
when pastures diluted themselves
and he deluded himself
that cows always come home

but tremors keep happening
aftershocks of a young life
spent in concrete shoes
asphalt tension of sparse blades of grass
waiting to wither in oppressive pondering

thoughts rise higher than those buildings
he couldn’t climb
as his fear of heights impedes
those steps he couldn’t take

when he found the cows had gotten lost
in his mind
and the seismic deformity of his spirit
deflated the needle on his compass

until he disappeared within himself
never got to drink the potent
ale of growing old —

the New York boy
still without a country
but understanding doesn’t need a flag
to identify the experience that
will follow him to his grave.