year after year

year after year

poor tiles,

resurrection city

built from poverty homes

walls thinning,

words of old poets

leaking through the roofs 

of addendums

but nothing is every really fixed,

the plumbing is inferior

the interior

is a busted heart

overhanging gut

twisted trees in a yard of dead automobiles

and he thinks he's king of the world

maybe the word,

but he's dying inside 

and he knows

he's going nowhere except toward senility's farm

well, 

he always thought the country

was better for him

as long as he had his woman

and his typewriter

even if the running water

was only that of a raging river

sounding by his tin ear.

erin-cilberto

2/3/18

Reviews

[steppenwolf]

Reading your poem reminds me of studying psychology in grad school and the concept of the house as a symbol of the self. Perfect example.

[jacob erin-cilberto]

thank you for that comparison, Leslie...

j.

[Jimmy Yetts]

Undoubtedly, reading "year after year" bummed me the freak out.
But, what style! How very clever!
From "overhanging gut" to "twisted trees in a yard of dead automobiles" to "going nowhere except toward senility's farm, " this poetic journey is fraught with metaphorical sinkholes.
Immensely creative, Jacob!

[jacob erin-cilberto]

thank you for your very kind review, Jimmy...sorry to have bummed you out.

j.

[Blue]

Powerfully evocative poem, sir! Any tips on how to craft such? I'm not so good with descriptions.

[jacob erin-cilberto]

thank you for your kind words, Blue.
wish i really crafted on my own, but i am ore of a conduit...the words come and i write them, and i am never sure from where it comes.

j.

[Blue]

ah, such gift. Thanks anyway :)

[jacob erin-cilberto]

one thing i could say is if you start an idea, metaphor or whatever, just to carry it through to the end of the poem...sometimes writers pack a poem with different metaphors, but they last a couple lines and then die...i know i tended to that back when i first started writing...but i think most of it for me is just the muse moving the fingers over the keys...the beat poet Frank O'Hara wrote similarly...they just poured out, and he let them.

[Blue]

YAY. This is a big help!