born into a bedpan

i wonder
if anyone
was ever
born
out of
the asshole

you know
one of those
freak things

a bizarre tale
but true
nevertheless

even if it's
never occured
in the history
of the world

perhaps there
are some that feel
like they were
born this way

i wonder if anyone
besides me
is thinking of this
right now

surely i can't
be the only
one

well maybe not so good

i can
feel
it
shifting

if
i
really
quiet
myself

this hour
week
month
year

these people
these places

shifting
slower
than
smoke
dissolving
in
a
room
on
a
sunday
morning

this
marvelous
gravy
of
the
present

turning
into
the
proverbial
"good
old
days"

neither death nor life

people always
complain
to
me
about
writer's block

& i don't understand
this phenomenon

a while back
a good friend gave me this
old typewriter

which i don't actually write on
but one night when i was drunk
i put a skull
that i use as a paperweight
on top of it

resting where
the blank page would be
the empty sockets
stared back at me
the jaw hovering
over the tiers of keys

maybe they wouldn't be
stumped for poems
if this skinless head
greeted them
before
they
wrote

but no, they neither
see death
nor
life

philosophical thoughts while smoking in a blizzard

i walked out
to have
a cigarette

in the flood light's
wide beam
the night air
was filled w/swirling
crystals

they were tapping
upon the surface
of my jacket
&
the peak
of my baseball cap

it looked
& felt
like electricity
was all around

charged particles
much like
the ones
we are made
of

like the ones
inside
of
us

i realized
more than ever
the inner
&
the outer
are
no
different

everything
is
identical

my visible
curls of breath
&
the smoke
i exhaled
the
same

when this
jar-like
body
finally
smashes
open
one day

it'll be
dancing
everywhere

graffiti between a nightmare & a wet dream

i wish
i could
tear myself
open
&
graffiti
my
own
organs

in hissing
black spray paint
write:
'fuck love'
upon
my
heart

'drink up,
sons-of-bitches'
on
my liver

'keep yr
ashtray full'
on my
lungs

'why budge?'
on
my
brain

'the soul
is
bullshit'
on
my
colon

but
instead
i
graffiti
these
outer
pages

which'll
definitely
outlast
my
innards

but not
really

this
whole
universe
is
something
between
a
nightmare
&
a
wet dream

unsubstantial
as
god

like the tar from one thousand cigars (dedicated to wolfgang)

i once was a young man w/death coolly dangling
from my mouth like a marlboro

now i am somewhere in the middle
& the thoughts of dying men
have permanently invaded my shape
like tar from one thousand cigars

& one day i will finally become what possessed
me my whole life through: an expired man

someone asked me the other day what poetry
was & i failed to answer them
but i will right now:

it's brailling
yr own urn

it's licking yr fingertips
& dipping them
inside & tasting
yr own ashes

it's the silt of
yr skeleton
on the tip
of yr tongue

don juan of melancholia

i realize
while
humbly
drinking
yesterday's
flat beer

that
i am
not
beyond
hurt
yet

in fact
it's quite
the
opposite

like my so-called
"achilles heel"
metastasized
like cancer
& made my
entire shape
a target
every cell
a bull's eye

every hour
contains
60
arrows

everything
stabs
me
these
days:

two sunnyside
eggs
popping
in the
frying pan

the crunching
noise
that occurs
while buttering
toast

the cat
stalking
sparrows

the recycling pail
overflowing
w/empties

a bloated
cigarette
floating in
a rain-filled
ashtray on
the bench
outside
my door

every
exhalation
i
make
in
the
dark

love
& lack
of
it

what on earth is this thing in my chest beating for?

this fist full
of blood in
my chest
has beaten
well over a
billion times
already

i've done
the
calculations

& today
i wonder
what they'd
sound
like
simultaneously

40 years
of beating

over a
billion
beats
at
once

but a better
question might be:
what on earth
would those
billion beats
be pounding upon?

love's door?

or
meaninglessly beating
upon an
exit?

that mute place
beyond numbers
& calculations
& love, yes
beyond love...

6 feet 8 inches & still lost

thomas wolfe
dead at 38

smoked 60
cigarettes
& drank 20 cups
of coffee
per day

so tall
he wrote
while
standing

using
the top
of his
refrigerator
as a
writing
surface

he was
8 inches taller
than the depth
of a grave

& that towering
lonely frame
told us
about being
lost

about not being
able to go
home anymore

& i think of him
whenever the
fridge door
squeaks open

& i eat
cold meat
off a bone
in bed
alone
at 2:15 am

cigarette smoke
rising but
w/nowhere to go

poetry doesn't begin w/a lump in the throat but rather w/a hand grenade...

that old softy robert frost said that
on his stone he wanted written:
"i had a lover's quarrel with the world"

i don't desire a stone but if i did i'd want:
"he had pistol whipping fist fights
w/this godless son-of-a-bitchin' world"

why's everyone living like they're driving in the slow lane w/their hazard lights on

yesterday i got a blow out
going 80 mph

after the car quit swerving
i pulled onto the shoulder

the rubber was shredded
the lugs nuts were stuck

big rigs thundered by
as i crouched struggling
w/the tire iron

i got the tire off
the old compact car shifting
on the rusty jack
& finally tightened the 'donut'
the tiny spare that comes
w/the car

it warns not to go over
30 mph w/it on

i got back in
& punched the gas
& hit 70

then i noticed in the rearview
that a hearse, of all things
was behind me

its headlights shining on a sunny
warm day in mid-october

not a funeral procession
just a death car following

but i felt no alarm
b/c that shit is always tailing you
whether you spot it or not

so i sped up
laughing at this
cosmic coincidence

75 mph
80 mph
etc...

the needle pinned
finally

while balanced upon
three bald tires
& one sketchy spare

cold egg rolls & lukewarm black coffee

i eat a cold egg roll
& sip lukewarm black coffee

staring out the window
at the leaves

i prefer it when
trees stand dying
& flowers wither

when nature quits
being ambitious

how does one fail
to become modest
in october?

but still i see them
greedy as ever
as the leaves fall

i wish money'd turn
brown & crumble too

if only for a short while

NICOTINE SCRIBBLINGS FROM A HAMMOCK IN THE VOID

This is my eighth book of poems. This time it's published by Good Japan Press:

Volume 4 comes from one of our favorite pessimists and all-around swell guy, Rob Plath.

His chapbook, Nicotine Scribblings from a Hammock in the Void, is now available for purchase.

Price - $ 7.00 (includes shipping within continental US) - If you buy 2 copies the cost is $12.00 - Buy 5 and it's a $27.00.

Make payments to agboerum@yahoo.com via PayPal. If you do not have PayPal access, please write us at GoodJapanPress@gmail.com for more information.

All orders will ship September 15th and arrive within 3 business days.

****I will have some copies as well. If you want a signed one. Let me know. As you know I am selling these. That's how it works. So if you're interested please email me here about payment method. I have Paypal or you can send a check or concealed cash. $7 includes shipping (add $1 more for outside USA). I will sign each book and draw my trademark skull & crossbones for you .


Thanks,

Rob

Cuffed To Your Own Muscle

In a way, the blood pressure cuff
is worse than handcuffs.

To know that you are prisoner
to a part within.

One with empty chambers
but that can explode anytime,

or send the blood so forcefully
through ribbon thin corridors

that they finally rupture,

leaving you like a fucking
dying geranium in a planter.

7 characters in non-pursuit of an entrance

i saw my birth
it had war-paint beneath
its leery eyes
& was sucking on the pin
of a grenade
at the lip of the womb

i saw my angel
its cigarette fallen from
its sleepy fingers
napping in a hammock
heavy lids facing up
at sweet cloudland

i saw my love
it was heroin-thin
its ribs visible
like the frets
on the warped neck
of some abandoned
pawn shop guitar

i saw my loneliness
it was grinning
ear to goddamn ear
sipping bum wine
& toasting itself
against an alley wall

i saw my faith
it was collapsed
in a shallow ditch
w/a rotten fruit skull
wearing a halo
of flies

i saw my ambition
it was in a morgue drawer
punching the keys
of the poetry machine
w/stiff bloodless digits

i saw my future
it was wearing a duster
made from a body bag
a toe tag
piercing its septum
like a bull
sipping whiskey on
a bar stool

To Hell With All Of The So-Called Cities Of Love

To hell with all of the so-called cities of love...

Give me a tiny room inhabited by two bodies, seated femur to femur, ribcage to ribcage,
on an old thrift store couch, two bodies smoking cigarettes, sipping beer from bottles,
their bare heel-meat pressing down against a burned, ripped strip of carpet, and finding
in this small, smoky space what the rest of the world wouldn't ever find in their next thousand lives:
that the natural magnetism of the marrow always defeats the weak draw of the shallow chambers
of the heart...

Give me this instead and I'll happily go into the Void without so much as a sigh.

As If It Wasn't Crowded Enough

sometimes it feels like loss
plants another skeleton
inside of you

as if it wasn't crowded
enough
with one set of bones

some nights you can
feel them slowly turning
in a tight embrace

this melancholy couple
dancing within

and it's almost kind of sweet
on those nights i drink away
and whistle a solemn tune
to this strange moving union

Unshaven In Thinned Out Black T-shirt and Greasy Jeans

The other day while reluctantly shaving,
after a few downward strokes,
I noticed a spot of blood.

Diverting my attention from surfaces,
was this bead of the interior.

Then I looked over,
in my false foam beard,
at the mesh laundry bag
hanging from the hook.

A week's worth of clothes
shoved in there like the innards
of a torso.

And I must say
I know nothing
of this existence
except the blood
ticking in my wrist,

and my yards of guts smirk
at History,
at Exteriors--

these things
the masses
kill for,
die for.

year after year

a soldier riddled with enough lead
drops forever right there on the spot

but some of us are not that lucky

we carry slugs in our guts
we harbor the heat
year after year

inoperable wounds
we walk around with
while frying eggs or tying
our shoes

Bone Poems and Blood Moonshine

Like inmates with life sentences,
we have to be resourceful
in order to survive in
this prison of a world.

Like captives sharpen
blades out of the handles
of toothbrushes to fight off
the deadly bullies,

like how behind bars, they make liquor
out of apple peels for some relief,

we lifers must whittle poems out
of our bones
for us all to shank Mr. Agony with,

and we lifers must extract our blood
and mix it with the alphabet
for us all to funnel
and drown our solitary confinement
and our sorrows.

'A BELLYFUL OF ANARCHY' BY ROB PLATH IS AVAILABLE .
EPIC RITES PRESS 2009
302 PAGES
$25 + SHIPPING

GO TO EPICRITES.ORG

Sitting Alone In Thinned Out Rooms

There are fewer pieces of furniture
in this tiny apartment now.

More white paint exposed.

Scuff marks on floors and walls
left behind by a hasty move.

An emptiness you wouldn't find
in a thousand unfurnished rooms
combined.

Meanwhile I take inventory of
what's left .

My eyes land on my dead
grandmother's telephone stand.

My two year old cat sits upon it
with its limbs tucked under itself.

A sign of a coming storm,
so the myth predicts.

God, is this how it goes?

Once cluttered rooms thinned
out by lost love.

Or wholly cleared out by
plain old death.

Remember that something'll perch
upon your furniture
one day when you no longer
exist.

As for the myth about the cat's position,
it seems to me there is always
a storm arriving.

Look around real good.

Weep hard.

But then give it another
whirl.

It's the only way to fill up
a goddamn room
again.

Balking

Is it really brief ease
that we want
or complete erasure?

Do weary minds desire
merely a lullaby
or total annulment,

but fearing finality,
balk,

and choose
impermanent pauses
instead?

war every night

some battles are fought
in tiny rooms
on cold, empty sheets

the unbeatable enemy: singularity

saturating its victim's soul
w/shell after shell
of emptiness

honeycomb of pain

someone asked me where
all my loss is stored

i told them my loss
shoulders its way
through membranes
of cells

nudging the nourishing nuclei
out of the
center ring

& there it sits
in each unit
like a bottomless
dark eye

as the masses laugh holding the pin to yr hand grenade heart

you
gotta
write
w/
the
shotgun
stuck
in
yr mouth

you
gotta
write
w/
the
hamburger
of
despair
in
yr
mouth

you
gotta
write
w/
yr
yellow
rotting
teeth
falling
out
in
yr
mouth

you
gotta
write
while
spitting
bloody
molars
at
the
ugly
white
page

you
gotta
write
w/
stained
cigarettes
sitting
burning
in
the
gaps
of
yr
gums

you
gotta
write
as
yr
top
floor
blood
pressure
boils
yr
kidneys
&
presses
threateningly
against
the
walls
of
yr
vessels
all
while
the
sides
of
yr
room
close
in

you
gotta
write
w/
yr
head
on
backwards
bleeding
out
of
yr
busted
nose
while
yr
neck's
in
a
noose


while
yr
nostrils
are
hemorrhaging
down
yr
crooked
spine

you
gotta
write
while
dancing
in
broken
down
shoes
in
yr
own
pool
of
blood

while
dancing
on
yr
own
fucking
grave
&
everybody
else's

YOU GOTTA DANCE UNTIL YR HEART EXPLODES & RED WAR PAINT STAINS THE RUNGS OF YR RIBS & YOU RIP THEM OUT ONE BY ONE & DRUM ON THE PAGE W/THE LONESOME UNCONTROL
OF A GOD

lines like drops of blood

my tongue is a damp slab
of meat among chips of skull

between the buds
& the web beneath
my life stories line up

broken off from
a perpetual lump
a tumor full of tines
at the back of my throat

they spring off the tip
through spaces between
tombstone teeth
like sprays of spit

not like venom
but rather the
antidote for the bites
within

hot droplets like pus
like tears
like blood

quit graffiting tombstones w/bullshit (for david mclean--fellow truth teller)

people aren't blank slates
when they're born
happily waiting to be filled up


rather they are wordless
tombstones pushed out of
the womb


mothers cradling
yet another grave-marker
in a birth blanket


not a chalkboard to be filled
w/formulas & philosophy
w/human horseshit


rather bloody
howling gravestones


& they spend their
lives slowly chiseling
their dumb names
into the slab


like they know
who they really are
what they really are


& maybe some etch
a cheap epitaph
a bald-face fabrication


HERE LIES SO & SO
& lies is fucking right
a rather appropriate verb


GONE W/THE ANGELS
row after row of
bullshit


nobody ever writes
the truth:


HERE ROTS A SACK
OF MEAT


ANOTHER FEAST FOR
CADAVER-EATING
BEETLES


& what will yrs say reader?


will you go down
into the ground
w/the rest
of the make-believe meat


a mute slab
of
LIES

dance in yr meat threads while you got 'em

meat threads

jugular vein
for a necktie

lungs
for lapels

colon
for
cummerbund

this human suit
that never
goes out
of style

one day you'll
strip down to
yr skeleton

& you'll try on
something
else
for size

a pine
box

w/nails
for buttons

death is
waiting w/
a tape measure
in the
final
dressing room

so dance
in
yr
meat threads
while
you got
'em
you son-of-a-bitch

trying not to stub my toe too much before they put a tag on it

the light bulb blew out
in the lamp
next to the couch

a pop & a flash
& then
darkness

like one of the stealthier
members of the paparazzi
finally snapping a photograph
of death

fumbling through a drawer
in the dark
for a new one
i screwed it in

the old one
still very warm
though dead
in my hand

a black spot
on it
like a smudge
on the crown
of a skull

along w/something
that had come loose inside
pinging within
the glass walls

a $1 store death's head baby rattle

an obsolete cartoon idea
above no one's head

& the new bulb illuminating things
ten watts brighter
than the one before it

sharpening the clutter
the edges & mouths of corners
in the room a little more

how lucky we are for this
invention
that allows us to see the jaws
& shadows awaiting
& precariously stacked accumulations
of dull objects

how lucky we are
that it saves us from stubbing our toe
before the tag
is
placed
around
it

no beef w/god today

i have no beef w/god today
it feels weird
i guess it's b/c it's the second day of spring
& the sky is blue
& i saw a few buds on branches
& i don't have to put the key into the ignition
& there's wine
& cigarettes
& a woman singing in french
on the radio
& this white page
is getting filled up
quicker than the ashtray
yes, i have no beef w/god today
my dangling guts pushed back in
& sewn up beneath the sutures
of all these illusions

happy deathday to you

the reaper will
make a cake of yr body
one day

a happy 'deathday' cake

he'll squeeze some feces
from a colostomy bag
like a baker
& write yr name on
yr chest in cursive
maybe create a little
tombstone next to it

HAPPY DEATHDAY ________!!
it'ill say in oozing brown icing

& then he'll jab a lit cigar
into your navel
where the umbilical once
was rooted

& the gray folds of ash
will glow & grow

then he'll whisper-sing
into yr ear:
happy deathday to you
happy deathday to you
happy deathday dear ______
happy deathday to you

& the worms will sing along
as they bang the butts of their forks
hungry for dessert

& you'll get one wish
before you blow out the cigar

& what might that be?

then the reaper will take
his sickle
& divide you up
as the worms line up
w/their little empty plates

& they'll come back for seconds
of course

& somewhere yr wish will drop
through space like a falling star....

kitty dingleberries, eggs & death

i was frying eggs
& sausage
& percolating coffee
when i turned around
& noticed streaks
of shit on the breakfast counter
the cat had a turd
dangling from her ass
& she was attempting
to remove it
by sliding her anus on my eating surface
i got a paper towel
& pulled the clinging shit
from her fur
wiped her down w/a towelette
while the pan was still sizzling
& then i bleached the countertop
when the food was done
i decided to set my place
at the coffee table
put on some good music
sprinkle some extra salt
& generously spread the butter
on the toast
before death's rotten brown
graffiti
got any fucking closer

as the blade floats in the air punch the keys

bukowski kept
a butcher
knife
taped to
the kitchen
door

not unlike
a fire extinguisher
where he could
rip it down
at anytime
& put out
the inner fire
once & for
all

but it stayed
there
floating
on the door
as it swung
back & forth
as he entered
to open another
bottle
of beer
& then returned
to his old desk
& filled
the ashtray
& punched
the machine
for him
for us

every one
of these acts
a postponed
removal of
the duct tape

the reverse noose

the other day
i found the plastic
bracelet my mother
wore on her wrist
right after i was born

the strip of paper
preserved inside
giving the exact time:
3:10 p.m.

i was horrified
to hold that thin flimsy cuff
in my 39 year old palm

i find the act of birth
worse than suicide

shoved out of nothingness
on a cold afternoon
in january

shivering in my sheen
of blood

the umbilical
a kind of reverse noose

but a noose
nonetheless

electric womb day

in bed wrapped
in the
electric blanket

a wire & wool womb

& another plain blanket
stapled over the window

blocking out the sky
that dull ancient
azure place

we all know the truth
that there's nothing
new beneath it
but most fantasize for fuck's sake
that there is

& all the people
that entire perpendicular
horror show
bending their knees
in their unsatiated strides

but not me
this beautiful de-evolution
is what i need

the appearance of strength

'that which doesn't kill
you makes you stronger'
nietzsche wrote
but i think although
the person may appear
stronger it's more
like after life
fucks w/you enough
it uses up its big guns
& has nothing much left
to take away from its victim
who's full of gaping holes
& some new bullets pass right
through them like they're
invincible super humans
& the biggest threat now
is only the nothingness
of the end
which the victim no longer fears
& maybe even welcomes

the wiser anatomy

my dying grandmother
a believer in god all of her life
said to me while she was constipated
& trying to reach up & pull shit out
of her asshole in the bathroom:
"there ain't no god--
don't listen to that garbage"
& a little while later as medics
wheeled her out on the gurney
she said, "change my room back
into a den b/c i ain't ever coming
back this time"
as her cheek bones rose
like islands of truth in her face
wiser anatomy than the wrinkled skin
i remember getting the news of her death
& standing in her empty room
next to my own & then kicking
her walker & making a hole
in the newly painted pink walls
my mother coming in saying,
"don't do that--someone else can use it"
after that i was convinced that all beds
are actually gurneys in disguise
it's just a matter of time

a little warm up (for wolfgang)

39 this month
w/rotting molars
coffee & nicotine stained
incisors darker than my skin
every night death unflossing them
a little more
w/its rough ancient twine
i prefer to think of it all
as a little warm up before
it finally straps its black tourniquet
around my heart
cinches it just right
& there'll be no more losing teeth
they'll be safe in my skull
beneath the ground

praying for a boiling rain

it's mid winter
& large carpenter ants
are coming down
from an unpatched hole
in the bathroom ceiling
i turn on the scalding bathwater
& some are still kicking
as they float towards the slats
of the tub drain
i'm as surprised by this black procession
moving down the tile
& dropping into the porcelain basin
as i am of the mysterious pain
in my upper thigh tonight
the gnawing beneath the skin
like something the cats are
waiting for sitting atop the cabinets
ears pricked, listening to
scratching within the walls
i'm not sure what to make
of these strange invasions
but it's enough to make a man
pray for a boiling dark rain

one day you'll pack yr organs in a valise and leave these premises for good

this existence
contains
less scope
than a
peephole
in a hotel
door
& like
a rental
it isn't
permanent
either
one day
you'll vacate
these
premises
for good
you'll pack
yr organs
in a valise
& the hole
will rotate
closed
like the iris
of a
camera

i am my own pallbearer

i
am
my
own
pallbearer

carrying
my
dead
weight
throughout
this
world

over
threshold
after
threshold

stoic yet
hysterical
within

i pause
to smoke a
cigarette

then lift
myself up again

& move on