in a Twilight Zone Saloon

drifter in a small town bar
the beers flow, the sound of the band
deafening,
music paces the dancing images in his head
he holds out his hands to keep time
someone drops a quarter between his fingers
the moment drops to the floor and spins
the bottle goes round and round and round
till it stops dead in its tracks,
a gunshot pierces the night,
the band becomes still—
as mummified librarians
between stacks of books written
by old dead bards—

(who drifted into small town bars
with their heads up their glasses
and ideas waylaid by hooker muses)

till they stagger up to an oscillating
line of keys
that refuses

to serve them peace
in past tense.

erin-cilberto
9/23/o7

the poetic time warp (Captain Insomnia 2)

it’s the late night obsession
lemonade stains on a desk that flies
with pandemonious wings,
and keyboard dials lit up with cockeyed
philosophy, caught in a Bermuda Triangle
the poet lost in time
blanking out in clouds of rhyme
writes letters to send through a storm
of unwitnessed gravity,
he falls to earth, stuck between worlds
staring at the drink wondering where it came
from.

erin-cilberto
9/23/o7

Somber Flag

living a life of shame
frame by frame
we turn away from society’s eye
trying to eke by
in some darkly evanescent world
only a pen to light the way
weak beams, broken dreams
waking in a cold sweat
lost the bet
now our being’s left to unfurl

in a crease
of incessantly cold breeze
the price to pay.

erin-cilberto
9/22/o7

Risking Absurdity to find Infamy

in
a scribble free world,
the neat strokes of precise chaos,
penmanship awry like a blind seeing eye dog’s scent
words stand in rigid engagement
suffocating rightness insists on pointing with aloof simplicity

we laugh, untuck our shirts
roll up our cuffs,
take off our shoes
and ride our pens like skateboards on an uneven sidewalk

our red tipped, white canes,
feeling the comfortableness of lackadaisical tapping thoughts,
scatter through a mine field of paradox

knowing we may scrape our knees
on the concrete,
yet we prefer to languish in the possibility
of finding a useful state of mind.

erin-cilberto
9/22/o7

a Hint of the End

hair trigger,
a touch of blandness
the earth moves with a shiver
the gun goes off and we blow our sense into the stars
it burns up and shines back to us
with fiery black magic
abracadabra cadavers with electric eyes
sawed in half
where once was passion drawn by blood

Noah’s wood curdles before the cubits
are laid in place for escape

as
we disintegrate
wishing we had used blanks.

erin-cilberto
9/22/o7

the Ride

merry-go-round fantasies
stir in my hardened steel hooves
i walk among the inanimate feelings of my past
ups and downs circle like a heart gone mad
buzzard colors paint my reflections
i see only spinning black eyes
and hear the carousel’s tainted song
as my imagination travels miles upon miles
with haunting reverie
yet when the ride stops

i’m only as far from myself
as a stationary horse
can take me.

erin-cilberto
9/21/o7

by and by

friends find a way to arrive,
the journey may take short cuts
and long cuts
and sometimes cut the heart in twain
but the tolls amassed
are refunded in longevity to appease
the wit of one who waits patiently
for the end of the road,
to find two people sitting on an old porch
reminiscing of the scenery of life
perused through the windshield of experiences
shared like a bag of golden chips
and though slight respites might
interrupt the flow of miles,
means find
ends with somewhat sardonic, yet simpatico
smiles
as a comfortable silence
joins them in contented
sigh.
by and by.

erin-cilberto
9/21/o7

Opus 7 (Scarlet Tones)

abrasive harmony
twisted tunes of tenacious love letting go
friction within a fictitious affair,
i thought i held your heart
perhaps it wasn’t so,

yet why does the imprint
play upon my palm
like a recorded message
without a good-bye song.

erin-cilberto
9/20/o7

Opus 6 (Practical Math vs. the Abstract Dreamer)

foregone conclusions
reside near the end of spliced liars
the moon disquiets the features
of the offbeat poet’s lineage,
artist’s finality in beamed breath beginning
to leak among darkened lines
truth too far gone,
love like an empty concubine
the bed tilts toward the reflection
of closure’s countenance
little white shatterings
piecing themselves back together
just before the inevitable termination.
erin-cilberto
9/18/o7

Larceny’s Angel

dressed in shadows
the gloves misprint, dusty name
by the unsafe heart,
emptied legacy,
poems stolen and reread
at the pawn shop of literary hand-me-downs

they found you in sweet surrender
sugar coated “i’m sorry, didn’t know this was
yours”—

where are they now, the words?
Black Market titles change pens so many times
ownership becomes a perverse riddle,

evidence, circumstantial ideas jailed
in a prison of plagiarism,

give me back my life
forget what you heard
those words used to be mine
but i don’t know them anymore.

erin-cilberto
9/17/o7