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"
Tuesday, November 3, 2009
Sunday, October 25, 2009
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
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
& 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
Thursday, September 24, 2009
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
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
Wednesday, July 29, 2009
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.
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
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
Sunday, July 19, 2009
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.
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.
Wednesday, July 15, 2009
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
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.
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.
Saturday, July 11, 2009
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
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
Wednesday, July 8, 2009
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.
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.
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This blog is updated irregularly and has nothing to do with the poet's output. The poet is actually disturbingly prolific. He writes about 5 poems per day. The pages are everywhere, even stacked in the bathtub.