Thirty-Fifth Entry

I hate it when it's cold enough to wear a coat but if you're walking down the street you break a sweat. That's about the worst type of weather in the universe. I'd rather get frostbit than that. Anyways.

A lot of things have happened. One of them involved me getting on a plane and going somewhere and then coming back. Another thing involved me playing cds for people in a semi-proffessional way. For more info about things that happened to me, please buy the STEVE ROBERTS COMPLETE EPISODE GUIDE by Bantam Books.

Here's my poem:

CHAPTER TWO

I slip behind you like a fever of shadows. I wear your clothes. I paint majestic frescoes in which you are Thor and you are chasing angels about. On the elevator I met a card-carrying Satanist. He showed me his card, which looked like a driver’s license. I asked him if he had a driver’s license. Then he turned into the Devil. I hadn’t realized I was in Hell. I had realized, but I was embarrassed to give away the surprise. I was put in an empty room for all eternity. There I found a saw, and a mirror, and those other things in that riddle I had heard, but I decided to leave them alone. I started to write my novel. Even though I had eternity I never got around to finishing it. But let me tell you about it. You never let me tell you. Your clothes are itchy, small, and the wrong color. Not that I would know, but I do know, you know? And some of the buttons are missing. I spent most of my life locked in a clunky workshop without much light and with many abandoned bicycles building a deliberate machine whose ultimate purpose was to find those missing buttons. But they are missing for a reason. First I had to test it by flying it from New York to Paris and I was the first to do this. At a certain point, while in the air, I became missing. It was great. Everybody you expect to be there was there. Amelia Earhart was there. Judge Krater too. And a lot of folks I wouldn’t have expected. St. Stephen was there. “Why are you here.” I said. “No one remembers me.” “But you’re not missing, you’re dead!” “We’re actually all dead” he seemed to say. Because he was a ghost. And he was right. I went home and everyone was amazingly dead! So I went and found the electric organ I had given to my friend Jade and I stole it back. Then, while wearing a respirator against the stench, I learned to play it. Now I’m thinking about writing a song.

Thirty-Fourth Entry

I started a full time job and it is horrible! I knew putting my nose to the grindstone was going to be a pain but I'm pretty sure I'm not just a sissy and this actually is a really tough, stressful job. It involves puppies.

I'm going home for a week and am looking forward to it very much. I am looking forward to the silence, the cable, the food, the two or three people who are my friends, people who smoke inside and drink cheaply, and of course my family and the turkey they eat.

I really have a thing for turkey.

But I'm not looking forward to seeing a bunch of old friends who I think might want to punch me now. My strategy: keep a low profile. Also my friend Justyn came to nyc to visit and I adore her! She's from Mystic and she runs a gallery now and is a professional bra-fitter by day, which cracks me up.

Here's my poem:

GOOD EVENING

Somehow I lost my green denim coat.
It was like a young friend,
constantly wanting my attention and advice.
I vomited in the trashcan,
and drug it around with me
showing it to everyone I saw.

But I didn’t see everyone. The stars
Sat on the roof, they were juvenile delinquents.
I slipped in the mop water. My face
felt snow and pavement. What am I
supposed to do now? How about that
hand mirror I gave you, do you still have it?

Yes, I am assured, you still have it.
Somehow duct tape got involved
and it also got on my jacket
and my jacket walked away
while I constructed this indignant face.
Did it work? Were you fooled?

I sat on the raft, I was
a vulture unashamed of his position,
you should have seen your face
as it separated from you, I’m so sorry
that I laughed but if you had been
where I was I’d be dead now.

In thy casket thou wore my denim coat.
I wore my indignant face and thy white tuxedo tails.
I sat on the bed and you should have seen my face
when it was your face and it was pressing against my leg
but that was never my face, when your head
came off when you were hit by that van

I was talking about your face and my face
was green and I was gesticulating, teasing
you with my delinquent fingers. I dig you up
and take you out every night: the mistake
is that others think that you are dead
but the vultures won’t even talk to you.

Thirty-Third Entry

I'm trying to update as often as I can, because I realize people actually read this blog and demand constant information. Such is the plight of the internet user. I'll try my best to keep you happy. Hope you like obtuse momma's boy poetry though.

Here's my poem:

JIGSAW AS METAPHOR

I am not at peace with the puzzle.
I walk a deep circle into the floor
pacing the coffee table, and the game
seems to have won again. I pick up
the box of loose pieces cut into
eccentric pattern shapes, shaking
in the box like a wet maraca.

Casually, I throw the box
into the room of puzzles
I never completed , over 2078
pieces are piled in poker chip
precision, by my roommate,
who counted them as well.

While I switch on the radio
and listen to DJs bicker
with circular logic, my roommate
assembles a pile of pieces,
rubbing his chubby reddish chin.

His walls have been obscured
with splatters, randomly assembled
puzzles, puppy eyes mixed in
with dutch houses and cartoon
light-sabers, little patches
of a manic cobblestone collage,
and in the other room I’m sitting
in my brown chair and smoking
a jittery cigarette.

These are not metaphors.
Yet still I’m happy I live where I live;
my roommate’s an artist, he spends
and spends and shows his clean fat face
to an office break room 1/3rd of every day.
I’ve never finished a puzzle, ever, even
when my parents were here to help me
but they did give me this chair,
and my roommate stacking jigsaw
in his room allows me to write
stuff like this.

Thirty-Second Entry

So much has happened and I haven't had a new poem in such a long time! Sorry!

My reading at the Ear Inn went very well, and I then had a reading at Emily Gordon's FEAST series, a great series. I was very impressed with all the readers and had a jolly good time. Thanks to those of you who came out.

Anyways, as always, I can't remember what else I was going to say.

Here's my poem:

MY ENGLISH IS NOT VERY PRETTY

When I wear my tourist costume (bright slacks,
ignorant grin) the street seems such
a better place to be. Your skin shines
like an insect’s would, and everywhere
we eat is exotic and I think of you
even when it’s rainy and I’m leaning
on a wet shrub, shaking wetness off
and sneaking inside the abandoned bakery.
In my memory of you, I remember you.
You laugh like whatever I said to you
Was for the first time, but now
it is the second time. Such is the problem
with bargain-hunting time-traveling.

I grab my mouth and prevent the words
from escaping and you don’t laugh,
and I don’t remember and I stumble
against the branch, spilling wet sod
on my Hawaiian shirt and my cover
is blown. They know I am from here.
They know I am from now.
I steal some bread and dash away
with my hands in front of my legitimate real face.