By Jacob Erin-Cilberto
words rolling off the tongue?
interesting phrase, cause do they really?
or do they spit, and slither
exhale like a black widow, killing all in her web
with breath born of insensitivity
eely substance of syllables
swimming through depths of souls
who can't see through the murk
or understand the peril
words rolling of the tongue?
a phase of being
a hearing of the inside coming out
fruitless forgery
how much for the original?
spit saved in a cup
sold at auction to the most naive bidder
do the voices inside our head really believe
what we are saying?
are spiders really insects important to the ecology of life?
or are they important to the theology of being trapped
within our own sealed lips
flies without tongues buzzing indifference
like news helicopters on lunch break
are the webs obstacles from God
to see if we can eventually fly away from viscuous phrases
that taint the coral with poison vapors
cut our poetic toes to bleed on the sand.
i feel the eel in my hand
no lies, just slippery love looking for rest
but i slither away from it--
cause i can't roll with the punches
or spit into the wind
i just want to cut my words
from the inside out
so no one will catch another of my misguided
breaths
and put bandages on my feet
where my mouth once was
***
"Book Mark"
By Jacob Erin-Cilberto
we write,
we read, we love
words sprung from the loins of hope
contentment, the child who drips words
from an infant's chin,
rattles his pen, wanting more
attention like a babysitter coddles the pages
voyeur of addiction,
we write,
we read, we love
we sow the seed of fate
in budding lyrics grounded in infinity's inquisition
who are we when we conceive?
whose clothes are we shedding
to get naked with the muse?
and how will we raise what we have birthed
with our creative semen?
how can we let them grow and then go
say goodbye, hope we gave them enough sense
to survive the cruel world that would sooner toss
them into a flaming fire of disregard
and forget them like a bad hangover or a dime novel
that soiled their sheets of expertise
but we have been to the party too,
we have drunk in the world and all of its connotations
and thus
we write,
we read, we love
we breathe
and
so do they.
***
"Game Shows And Intervals Of Life"
By Jacob Erin-Cilberto
i have an inclination
to declination,
survey says "broken heart"
but that wasn't even the question--
the mc garbled the words and i got confused,
the audience just laughed at me,
then the pity took over like a lion tamer
trying to get the pain to sit back on its heels,
The other side won the game, and i lost all the feelings
i had bet on you,
contestants gambling against the house
usually come up a deck of fate late
and determination
for extermination
becomes the next rung
up the pyramid
but now i can't decide whether to give
or receive the clues.