One Hundred and Forty Eighth Entry

Happy Brew Years everybody!!!!

Lot of colossal changes here in the Roberts camp, but at least I'm writing new poems, and this year is actually looking up for me which is odd, I know. Here's a happy dappy scrappy little bit of new writing.

Here's my poem:

NEW YEARS

Keep continuing, hoping that some powerful essence will escape me.
The next day will feel so great, a breeze at my back and my empty body lighter
than before. Continuing on towards the bank with small pieces of paper to be exchanged.
Next, my friend, I dawdle by your grave, happily pressing my face area
against the rain-wet stone. On the wheelchair is printed a special sticker. My face
is later pressed against the rough wood of my hand-carved living room furniture.

You are no longer my robot plaything, no longer my man-servant.
Now each can of dried goods in the cupboard will hold a special glow for you.
Are all my nervous fantasies off the mark? Each time I close my eyes and tense,
you appear, as if to do or say something. All fingers wiggle inside my glove,
the maps start losing their cities. Time stands frail, a feeble old man doomed
to watch the teenagers of fate destroy his lawn. Fingers fall off the hands for want of a face.

One Hundred and Forty Seventh Entry

It's getting too long in between entries. I've been working, and I've been re-writing a lot of stuff for a special project. I wonder now if this special project is going to happen. But anywho, I aged an extra year. I got through another semester. I just watched a movie. I hate how this blog cuts off my poems no matter how small I make them. I'm going to move to a new address soon. Watch out for it, single reader!

Here's my poem:


METALS

I'm elderly here.
I flex, my coils stretching in pantomime of a creative film --
Man in tandem with dog -- protected with plastic bag glove --
we codgers celebrate our youths as The Only Youth --
intelligence in animals mistranslated = violence becomes mating ,
philosophy becomes violence. Three cheers for Young Monster Party,
men battering their nipples in mid-holler, the future is being emailed to them --
the apes let their earphones shudder -- tattooed remains muttering nationality = stupidity,
the doom economics as effortless smoke folds forward, earphones in place --
overall the chatter of insect wings. This means my skull must be built of tougher stuff --
my metal cockroach -colored, no one's skull retracts like mine --
long shot of body self-propelled through window -- now the host asks me a question,
and I rehearse my response before I answer.