Desire of the Fossil

at heart, the hundred year old man
drooling at the gates of nevermore
longs to dispatch the dreams that haunt him
that wake him up more often than the need to release
from his bowels the built up tension from the acres
of anguish harvested.

he wants his breath to have clarity at the end
he wants his silver hair neatly parted
like memories put in order,
not a pain out of place
nor an overripe fruit of virtue
he held onto too long

the toll has been overpaid, but change is not given in heaven
and they won’t break his greenback,
but the spine isn’t as straight as his mortal eye
looks into the future
and crops are finicky

so feelings unresolved might be washed away with the next rain
or become more fertile.

erin-cilberto
8/28/o7

Simply Drifting

dance with me down the block
of treason—
covet the touch as we brush against the wind
blown against currents of longing
we seep into the music
like a slow, falling mist over ripe vines

and grow carelessly into a waltz,
gliding in restless repetition
away from the sound
of blooming morning glories,
till the floor escapes from under
our feet and night gently asks
to cut in.

erin-cilberto
8/28/o7

a Short Short

the poet stood in the doorway of forever
near an East River fog
that held the shepherd’s breath,
a flock of innocents ignored the words
and bled out onto a street filled with the vile traffic
of insignificance.

erin-cilberto
8/27/o7

a Sylvia Salad before the Main Course (Plath 12)

the oven looks delicious
to a poet scarcely able to breathe
life into her work,
the recipe for letting go
baking on a flat sheet she wears in her mouth
like a bow tie on a burning tux
singed brows above eyes that have seen too much
she puts two more tablespoons of herself into the casserole

moves the dial to “pilot off”
and flies away with the bubbles
of the concoction made of ingredients
she could never recast
into this movie she would rather not
see for the first time.

erin-cilberto
8/27/o7

Crazy II

it’s a humid room outside
the shutters closed with corn stalk carelessness
the field is moist with tepid emotions
browned and ruined by scorching rays
that burn from the orange heat lamp
tanning the hard hides that bide–
but too much wattage fries a brain
harvested from salty wounds
clever white coated doctors play
scrabble just a couple rows from the door

i hear them spelling “crazy”
with triple word score benefits
but my insurance has run out
and the locks have no key
when emotions are broke

yet in endless summer, the corn
refreshes itself, grows in strait jacket green vests
crops get a refund of life
but some of us just end up scarecrows
filled with straw saved up from the last drought

and we still can’t pay to get out.

erin-cilberto
8/27/o7

A Dodger’s Blue

entranced by the red light
wanders the lonely streets of Brooklyn
past the apartments that are no longer Ebbets Field,

home plate is a dish in a shelter
the bag he clutches stolen, wine bottle cork
protrudes from the sack

the pitcher stares through a window
at the girl in the stands
with lascivious smile

spits his homage into the dirt
toes the rubber,
hesitates

then moves toward flashing sound
of sirens
about to give himself up

to the precocious night
surrender to his needs
then takes another swig

and swallows his confidence
like an old ballplayer
who gave up a winning hit

in the ninth inning
of his life.

erin-cilberto
8/26/o7

Wild Horses

blizzard ranch, herds of snowflakes
white mares
break through barbed wire weakness
cover up the abode where
lymph nodes connect to the outer edge
of complacency;
in the distance the eyes know the road
leads away from the structure
of love’s back flow
but the lovers only see inches in front
of their hearts—
because of the pelting feelings
bursting through skin
night mares neigh from empty pillows
the assault blankets the sleepy expanse.

erin-cilberto
8/26/o7

Reeling in the Black and White Truth

graceful dagger
we trust till the cold blade
introduces itself to the heart
suddenly that movie plays in high speed
first date to last date and all in between
high definition blues sap the strength
from cuts above the waste of edited emotion
and the key grip feels uncomfortable
crying in the corner, cleaning fingerprints
off the knife.

erin-cilberto
8/25/o7

the Cold Gunslinger

there’s drama in the old boots
the sound of iron scraping leather
spurs at dawn spinning against a too bright sun
the flash, the rainbow before the tornado
blinded cloudbursts echo on the street
thunder of electric fingers dialing triggers
fickle resolve reaches a busy signal,
dust pointed toes pray to a creaking sky
after the fall, grace is buried in Boot Hill
and winter’s face appears
on a wanted poster hung up
in the center square of a ghost town.

erin-cilberto
8/25/o7