tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-128176232024-03-07T01:05:17.622-08:00OH SWEET DEATH COME FOR ME: what a week"Noble Duro."steve robertshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11714025342869446899noreply@blogger.comBlogger157125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-12817623.post-11565611444585249122008-11-04T18:12:00.000-08:002008-11-04T18:20:03.528-08:00One Hundred Fifty Eighth EntryKind of a dry spell for Steven. I run a reading series now. I'm a big man with big plans.<br /><br />Here's my poem:<br /><br /><br />MUMMIE, KENTUCKY<br /><br /><span style="font-size:85%;">My lungs are empty for a brief moment.<br />Now I'm restless, bored with the tragedy of crawling snakes.<br />Lungs are pitiful bags, unable to beg my cigarettes for relief.<br />I'm going to announce myself as mayor when we get there.<br />Are churches without roofs closer to God?<br />Going up to the clouds are many prayers, many tiny puffs of smoke.<br />Churches get built near the road, for easy access and escape.<br />Up in the clouds, maybe you sleep with a magazine on your lap.<br />Get this woman more coffee, stewardess. She is special to me.<br />In this car, we have begun collecting regional candy wrappers.<br />This town will be my line in the dirt for decent people.<br />This mayor will shine through the night like a lighthouse.<br />We can't even imagine right now the whiteness of his house.<br />Entire families are charged with keeping it clean and bright.<br />Can't find any magazine worth having at the service station.<br />Families drive home from Sunday service, loosening their clothes.<br />Find me a mayor who's lived with the nonsense that I have.<br />Drive backwards to New York; remind me why we're doing this.<br />Me, I'll just crush my cigarette on my shoe and make that face.<br />Backwards little country towns are preserved in time like fancy bones.<br />I'll push the button on the car radio, but I don't really want it off.<br />Little do we know the best song is coming up.<br />Push me against the window; wait for my face to get cold.<br />Do these small favors and you are always welcome in my town.<br /></span><br /><span style="font-size:85%;">Candy from America is so innocent and so horribly named.<br />Cow's Ears and Super Mud Pops litter our floorboards.<br />From this window, trees wave like well-wishers.<br />Ears poised for anything, we have been twisting the dial.<br />This trip has caused us to drink and sleep more.<br />Poised for revelation, we've spent very little time outside of this car.<br /><br /></span><span style="font-size:85%;"></span>steve robertshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11714025342869446899noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-12817623.post-57106454694220490242008-06-10T09:44:00.000-07:002008-06-10T09:46:14.560-07:00One Hundred and Fifty-Seventh EntryI had a REALLY bad nightmare last night. It's also two thousand degrees here today. Also, I scratched my glasses and need to get new lenses. Just things going on in Steve-land. Here's another Animal Kingdom poem.<br /><br />Here's my poem:<br /><br /><strong>JACKDAW (CORVUS MONEDULA)</strong><br /><strong><br /></strong>The kitchen table is covered in white cotton,<br />and I am drinking a cup full of ants.<br />Her breasts are touched by sunlight<br />and begin to turn blue, then red,<br />and are topographical like a globe's surface.<br />I am eating the meat off a skeleton.<br />In the future I will eat mostly worms.<br />Other people will live on this globe,<br />or so my encyclopedia says on my computer.<br />Her breasts exist in the future,<br />underneath a button-down shirt<br />made of white cotton.steve robertshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11714025342869446899noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-12817623.post-45893664743744401272008-05-16T15:42:00.000-07:002008-05-16T15:47:40.409-07:00One Hundred and Fifty-Fifth EntryI've started writing poems that I'm not posting. Don't worry, it's only been a couple and it's because they're not of a caliber, you know what I mean? Plus, with my <a href="http://www.facebook.com/event.php?eid=14874274638">reading</a> series getting started and my book on the horizon, I'm realizing I don't need to put up every little snot out of my nose. But that last poem was dedicated to Gina Myers, so you know. And this one is not. I'm starting a Jackson Mac Low-<span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_0">ish</span> project called "Steve Roberts' Animal Kingdom." Here's one of those poems.<br /><br />Here's my poem:<br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">EAGLE (<span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_1">FALCONIDAE</span> <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_2">ACCIPTRES</span>)<br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;"><span style="font-weight: bold;"></span></span></span>I'm writing about sunlight dripping off of a brick wall.<br />It hurts me to write about it, and my house<br />is surrounded by sunlight. It hurts me<br />to drink, I check my watch and open<br />my encyclopedia. I wrote a letter<br />laying in the grass while the sunlight<br />slapped the surface of my computer.<br />My white cotton shirt is now red.<br />I was drinking while writing a letter.<br />I was grinning on the telephone while talking<br />to the president and eating.<br />I'm writing about worms.<span style="font-weight: bold;"><span style="font-weight: bold;"><span style="font-weight: bold;"></span></span><br /></span>steve robertshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11714025342869446899noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-12817623.post-54394478762340971972008-04-29T15:25:00.000-07:002008-04-29T15:31:01.030-07:00One Hundred and Fifty Fourth EntrySo, it seems almost a lock that I'm starting a reading series!!!! The first one will be on the last Wednesday of May and will feature Nathan Austin and Lauren Ireland. It'll be at Home Sweet Home on <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_0">Chrystie</span> St. I have more information, but I'll update you <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_1">dudettes</span> later, okay?<br /><br />This week is crunch time for me, work-wise. Tonight especially. And I'm dealing with it the only way I know how: by watching Back to the Future II and ignoring it. I am currently listening to the Gin <span class="blsp-spelling-corrected" id="SPELLING_ERROR_2">Blossoms</span>.<br /><br />Also, I went to the <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_3">Flarf</span> reading at Bowery Poetry Club this last Saturday. It was interesting and good, mostly. Shanna Compton killed, of course. I loved her new poem. Anyway.<br /><br />This poem is being posted especially for Dan <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_4">Magers</span>.<br /><br />Here's my poem:<br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">FAIR PARK</span><br /><br />I burn most of the things I own<br />soon after buying them. Some of them<br />are cigarettes, and I guess that's okay,<br />but often, while musing in my study,<br />I'll forget my left hand set the house<br />on fire while my right hand set<br />the house on fire.<br /><br />This town is why<br />red light bulbs were invented. Dinosaurs<br />used to roam here, but most of the bars<br />they frequented have been shut down.<br />I like it when old people,<br />sitting wherever they sit, smoking<br />whatever it is I smell, tell me<br />about how everything used to be better<br />before I was born. I don't think<br />I'm the problem. Young people,<br />wearing black, often tell me to go away<br />when I sit in the tattoo parlor<br />and tell them they are making<br />a horrible mistake.<br /><br />But I don't think they're the problem<br />either. Most of this town is grass<br />spread out on each side of the expressway.<br />When mowed, it's easy to compare the surface<br />of the Earth to your very own face,<br />but actually there are differences,<br />just like the differences between architecture<br />and those little paper models the architects<br />make.<br /><br />When I set fire to this town<br />watching the fairgrounds melt<br />into unintentional outsider art,<br />I will smoke a cigarette, and it will<br />just be something I did.<br />Firemen will try to arc their hoses<br />high enough to put out the <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_5">ferris</span> wheel,<br />but up there, at the top, there is no fire<br />and there can be no water. Most of the old people<br />understand this confusing truth,<br />and that is why they sit there<br />and let flies settle in their glasses<br />and let the beer go flat<br />just so they can tell me<br />that the town you're born in<br />is the only town you'll ever really live in<br />and though you might hear of other places<br />and know people from them,<br />and even go there to live, all of that<br />is an illusion, and really you have never left.<br />Being Texans, they actually believe this.<br /><br />Young people, to, think they are wise<br />about all kinds of things, and even though<br />they are wrong, this is a kind of wisdom<br />and it cannot be reproduced. In the tattoo<br />parlor, they relieve themselves<br />of the responsibility of owning their bodies,<br />and instead leave the big decisions<br />up to the pin-ups, battleships and <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_6">wildebeasts</span><br />now taking up space on their thighs and forearms.<br /><br />A tornado came through here once.<br />Not really, but it could have. Tornadoes are always<br />showing up. They never ask if they can stay,<br />and I guess they never stay that long, but they leave a mess,<br />an indelible impression everywhere that they go.<br />I am not like this. I try not to leave stains anywhere,<br />or marks on the floor, and although I am<br />unsuccessful, when I leave a particular area<br />it's as if I was never there, and whatever<br />I have done gets attributed to someone or something<br />else. This makes it incredibly easy to start fires,<br />and I have started many of them, but there are always<br />more, every day, that I haven't started,<br />and that's how I make peace with the idea of it.<br /><br />My state has a long and interesting history.<br />At one point, many of us attacked<br />the Mexican army while they were asleep.<br />At <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_7">Goliad</span>, several of us surrendered<br />and were executed by the Mexicans.<br />This seems to have upset some people.<br />I'm sure they didn't mean any harm. It's just that<br />in the course of history, bad things happen<br />and people get hurt, often by other people.<br />If I have learned anything, and I have,<br />it's that worrying about the consequences<br />of these actions is not really a good way<br />to spend your time. There are so many<br />important things to eat. There are so many<br />important things to drink. If you don't<br />take advantage of these items, somebody else<br />probably will.steve robertshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11714025342869446899noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-12817623.post-78515987608873617662008-04-24T12:31:00.000-07:002008-04-24T12:36:46.576-07:00One Hundred and Fifty Third EntryStill hanging in there, like that little kitty on the branch in the motivational poster.<br />This last poem at read at Amy Lawless' Control Reading Series. You should all go to it. it's muy bueno.<br /><br />p.s. the Weather Wand is a weapon used by DC supervillain the Weather Wizard. I don't actually know if that has any relevance.<br /><br />Here's my poem:<br /><br /><strong>THE WEATHER WAND<br /></strong><br />There is a wheel made of thirty spokes,<br />meant not to roll across the muddy street.<br />Its time is measured by a general weathering;<br />as the wood chips and whitens, the wheel<br />eventually leaves the apartment, nuzzled<br />in our sneaker treads, warm like baby mammals<br />in the folds of their mothers in the wild<br />being photographed by biologists from England.<br /><br />Everything is constructed with a purpose, even<br />tiny balls of discarded gum, discarded<br />by the not-so-careless fingers. And most of it<br />cannot stand up to rain. Rain is created almost<br />everywhere. The way it lands on the face, the way<br />it follows the unseen tear-grooves in the cheeks<br />and eventually makes its way to the ground to pool<br />does not, in the grand scheme, matter very much.<br />Seriously, there is no god.<br /><br />Strange to think that sweat and saliva<br />have a part to play, but they actually do.<br />How is it sunny when the shadows don't rustle<br />us from sleep? The sleeping body does not know<br />the weather, trapped in the perpetual keel-haul<br />of the oxygen-free subconscious. Rain will never<br />enter into the mind's convoluted understanding<br />of rain. Scientists and doctors are currently<br />and have for some time been studying the purpose<br />of sleep, but in a way the mind will never know<br />the effects of, say, a tornado or rainbow. Might<br />be easier to explain illusions to the blind.<br /><br />If there was a god, I'm not sure he would really<br />care about the weather's effects. Or me. Sleep<br />is difficult to come by in the presence of storms.<br />That is one reason why I stopped creating them. That,<br />and my own misunderstanding of time. I used to feel<br />there would always be time for this or that, but certain<br />thises or thats will never come again, and this<br />upsets me very much when, in the shadow provided<br />by my window shade, I try with a palpable effort<br />to return to the one place I can and by turns cannot<br />control the weather, landscape and changing cast<br />of characters which is, in case it's not obvious,<br />where I would rather be right now.steve robertshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11714025342869446899noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-12817623.post-37615355018495550422008-03-29T09:17:00.000-07:002008-03-29T09:21:55.713-07:00One Hundred and Fifty-Second EntryGood Morning, Blog.<br /><br />Going to the Armory Show today, that should be both expensive and fun. Here's a wonderful found poem from a Norwegian phrase book I found at the <a href="http://www.reanimationlibrary.org/">Reanimation Library</a>. It's in Carroll Gardens, oddly enough, about a block from where I used to live, at the Proteus Gowanus gallery.<br /><br />Here's my poem:<br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">FOUND POEM<br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;"></span></span> We have not much money.<br />Here are three stamps.<br />I have some money in my purse.<br />How many books have you there?<br />What has the boy in his pocket?<br />There is a light in the room.<br />Are the children at home?<br />The boys have no money.<span style="font-weight: bold;"><span style="font-weight: bold;"><span style="font-weight: bold;"><span style="font-weight: bold;"></span></span></span><br /></span>steve robertshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11714025342869446899noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-12817623.post-76809460314164910212008-03-16T00:59:00.000-07:002008-03-17T08:55:49.011-07:00One Hundred and Fifty-First EntryI've been staying up very late lately. Who knows why? This poem is part of my Fit to Print series. I bought a new totally manual typewriter, and it's inspiring me to write, mostly fiction, but this poem as well. Peace and hair-grease.<br /><br />Here's my poem:<br /><br /><span style="FONT-WEIGHT: bold">URGED AT NIGHT COUNCILS</span><br /><br />No effort, and we wander.<br />Our first instinct is to bend like thin fronds<br />towards the computer, but I don't. Pennsylvania<br />clinched it. Let words slip down the grease-slick stairs<br />of our cities. The cloth has been lifted,<br />and the dust will land on our shelves<br />like a form of snow never recognized.<br /><br />I could take the branch in my mouth,<br />chewing the bark until it and my teeth gave way.<br />Later the break in weather came, the redness<br />as multiple scarves were left, their tartans<br />fading in the halls of the community space.<br />No work for the week, the delegates eager<br />to leave to the hills, their altars<br />buried under their skin and suits.<br />The office itself takes on a haunted glow,<br />the manager predicts harmony among tribes,<br />but his seeing bones were raw, fresh<br />from the sockets, winter surprises like a sudden door.<br /><br /><br />My bones are in excellent condition; they glimmer<br />inside me and shine out upon reflection with the moon.<br />What is your building like, when you're not there<br />to turn the lights on? What is being worshiped<br />by the steel? I don't care too much about the answer,<br />it's the asking that indicates direction. Which is always up.steve robertshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11714025342869446899noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-12817623.post-73250607088859380842008-02-18T10:44:00.000-08:002008-02-19T17:56:18.759-08:00One Hundred and Fiftieth EntryWow! I reached a buck fifty! Congrats go out to myself.<br /><br />Honestly, every poem is a little victory. I keep myself so busy. And aside from work, this is supposed to be what I work on the most, but I'm sure everyone reading this knows how it is.<br /><br />I've started a new project, because it interests me and, for the time being, I need a project in order to keep myself motivated. It involves a book of new york times headlines that Gina gave me. I just love old timey reporting language. And presidents. One of them appears in my poem. I'm thinking of calling the project "Fit To Print." Is that too much?<br /><br />Here's my poem:<br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;"></span><span style="font-weight: bold;">AND THE TREATY IS NOW ENFORCED</span><br /><br />Strike spreading across twelve and a half faces.<br />Bruising is the first sign of communication.<br />Wilson to summon me, anxious, sitting on staircase,<br />well-lit, my feet crunching through plaster on rugs.<br />Eggs. Eggs is what I keep thinking of, working<br />through white plaster -- my toes are wiggling<br />in my boots with much effort. Snug in a blanket<br />of my making. Still hoping for harmony.<br /><br />Berger says he will run again. My phone shudders.<br />Soon he will call me back, crazy, near freezing<br />in the fog shoulders of a wooded area.<br />Quit running. The city will continue to effect you.<br /><br />Still, compromise spirit grows. The stairs are swept.<br />Ten hundred women and men in black sweatshirts<br />means we have beaten death and our parents.<br />We have won. We are all standing together for a while.<br />Was a missionary leader a hero for saying<br />what no one listened to? I wake up in my city<br />to missionaries burning. I wear a missionary shirt<br />the next day and walk all over town.<br /><br />The letter came in the evening:<br />"You're supposed to care about this."steve robertshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11714025342869446899noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-12817623.post-42184727768661235132008-02-04T09:41:00.000-08:002008-02-04T10:20:29.636-08:00One Hundred and Fourty-Ninth EntryWell, you remember how I thought the year was looking up for me? Well, that was for a particular reason. And I wasn't, like, 100% right about that reason. But I'm still right! This month and it's subsequent days have been great for me, full of fun and change and small successes, which add up, gentle reader.<br /><br />Anywho, trying to finish the last edit of the book and get SERIOUS about new poems. Starting here!<br /><br />Here's my poem:<br /><br /><strong>GOODY GOODY</strong><br /><br />Plain colors hold weight like fat smart kids stay alone.<br />A happy survey-taker waltzing through the medium length lawn,<br />getting to your doorstep, my cold and fragile petunia, and asking<br />much of himself, patting the tan suitcase leather as he is allowed<br />inside, the day frothing into the window-shades and the iced tea<br />perspiring like a fat kid.<br /><br />And when holding onto your fat kid while he waits for the bus,<br />the bus that will never support his frame, remember the bus is ending;<br />the bus that is yellow as your child’s heart, remember the bus is ending;<br />ending itself on constant comic cliffs in the anecdotes of others,<br />and ending in the way all events have already happened,<br />our certainty in the spots of rust mottling the thin metal,<br />too thin to save a life, to thin to make a fair comparison to your child,<br />our certainty which we hold in our heart like a disembodied hand<br />over our chest, a feminine hand full of love as pockets are occasionally<br />full. With different items. Which the survey-taker, glancing<br />at his own body, is now suddenly too hasty to talk about,<br />collecting his various garments and official items, rushing the door<br />as if you are rushing him, my friend, my dear exotic friend.<br /><br />Who smells like perfume, because that’s what people do.<br />Our children walk along familiar paths,<br />home as if there were only one;<br />they are safe, and we worry for them.<br />As the sun turns to the other side of our planet<br />the news-anchors put bibs on over the suits and blouses<br />because they, like you, need water, and spiders<br />trickle these small bits of moisture, emptied inexplicably<br />from somewhere in their bodies, down the line of web<br />connecting one corner of your wooden garage interior<br />to the other.steve robertshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11714025342869446899noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-12817623.post-12899590906058762902007-12-31T18:15:00.000-08:002007-12-31T18:23:02.588-08:00One Hundred and Forty Eighth EntryHappy Brew Years everybody!!!!<br /><br />Lot of <span class="blsp-spelling-corrected" id="SPELLING_ERROR_0">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.<br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;"><span style="font-weight: bold;"><span style="font-weight: bold;"></span></span></span>Here's my poem:<span style="font-weight: bold;"><span style="font-weight: bold;"><span style="font-weight: bold;"></span></span><br /><br />NEW YEARS</span><br /><br /><span style="font-size:78%;">Keep continuing, hoping that some powerful essence will escape me.<br />The next day will feel so great, a breeze at my back and my empty body lighter<br />than before. Continuing on towards the bank with small pieces of paper to be exchanged.<br />Next, my friend, I dawdle by your grave, happily pressing my face area<br />against the rain-wet stone. On the wheelchair is printed a special sticker. My face<br />is later pressed against the rough wood of my hand-carved living room furniture.<br /><br />You are no longer my robot plaything, no longer my man-servant.<br />Now each can of dried goods in the cupboard will hold a special glow for you.<br />Are all my nervous fantasies off the mark? Each time I close my eyes and tense,<br />you appear, as if to do or say something. All fingers wiggle inside my glove,<br />the maps start losing their cities. Time stands frail, a feeble old man doomed<br />to watch the teenagers of fate destroy his lawn. Fingers fall off the hands for want of a face.<br /></span><br /></span>steve robertshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11714025342869446899noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-12817623.post-89604176944483372792007-12-18T13:29:00.000-08:002007-12-18T14:06:36.651-08:00One Hundred and Forty Seventh EntryIt'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!<br /><br />Here's my poem:<br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;"><br />METALS<br /><span style="font-size:85%;"><br /></span></span><span style="font-size:85%;"> I'm elderly here.<br />I flex, my coils stretching in pantomime of a creative film --<br />Man in tandem with dog -- protected with plastic bag glove --<br />we codgers celebrate our youths as The Only Youth --<br />intelligence in animals mistranslated = violence becomes mating ,<br />philosophy becomes violence. Three cheers for Young Monster Party,<br />men battering their nipples in mid-holler, the future is being emailed to them --<br />the apes let their earphones shudder -- tattooed remains muttering nationality = stupidity,<br />the doom economics as effortless smoke folds forward, earphones in place --<br />overall the chatter of insect wings. This means my skull must be built of tougher stuff --<br />my metal cockroach -colored, no one's skull retracts like mine --<br />long shot of body self-propelled through window -- now the host asks me a question,<br />and I rehearse my response before I answer.</span>steve robertshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11714025342869446899noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-12817623.post-29021935320741183912007-11-07T10:19:00.000-08:002007-12-18T14:06:58.155-08:00One Hundred and Forty-Sixth EntryWhy hello there. I've been neglecting you, little blog. I've had work and play and mid-terms and blogging and movies and smooches and arguments and, most of all, a top secret project. But I'm back, and hopefully we'll continue to see a lot of each other.<br /><br />Those of you who might be interested in seeing this guy read, come on down to the Four-Faced Liar on this Saturday at 2:30. I'll be reading with Dan Magers, Alex Smith and Nathan Austin. It's going to be a lot of fun.<br /><br />Here's my poem:<br /><br />CHANT II<br /><br />Screeing of born universe, belt-chrome signifying “what a waste” – sprouting limbs, twenty Athenas of television color test bars, yes, old addresses replete with shadow-pasts, ghosts liberaling around peeking in closets made for limbless shut-ins from the third world – beginning of life on Discovery Channel – “fuck protesters” is built into the façade on Brooklyn wall viewable by train, glass fogs in reaction to moist sponge bodies – game developed, incorrect gravity, character falls in hole of the program – epileptic shutter-speed in unlit haunted house room, sweat in plastic visibility greatly decreased – limbless protesters ask passerby to kick and spit on them, placards gently hung about necks – suction reforms face, rich blood taste from injury in mouth – cold while grass sticks to shuddering mass, eyes cataracted into pointlessness, sound from mouth open to re-adaptation, directors sniveling behind chairs and cameras.steve robertshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11714025342869446899noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-12817623.post-2096889024309826322007-10-12T11:40:00.000-07:002007-11-07T10:13:03.528-08:00One Hundred and Forty Fifth EntryI'm finding it harder to write poems these days, to be honest. I feel like I can't put two words together. I'm not lacking for inspiration, but somehow I'm lacking something. Oh well, no apologies. I'm working on a revision for a top secret project coming up soon. And also, I'll be reading <em>somewhere</em> in Manhattan in November so watch out for that. In the meantime, here's a kind of halloween-ish one.<br /><br />Here's my poem:<br /><br /><strong>CHANT</strong><br /><br />Whiskers drip, their shine stings off the sheen but no face of the beast - in the morning fall was littered all over the sidewalk, orange like nasty sunset, happy because the dying trees mean the walk becomes easier. A shadow inside of grey codes, snot-paint on blacktop, innards taken out instantly and spread like banquets for troubled homeless cats with blood-hair – I’m talking about a website killer who sneaks in through the night-glow – every dream with bare feet where I end up lashed to a tree. It’s time to shiver. Rat inside the meat, small eyes/gut instinct subdued by smothered air and wet darkness. There’s a placid place among trees, barricaded by damn cement, meaty hands neutered. Candelabra hangs twisted – now the red cloaks enter from stone passage – unbelievable, the weight of the gold blade on the neck. The sex of your blonde and white underwear murders sustains you. Necklace bone-shake while descending to antechamber, dim through the lightning. Dial tone empties into empty hall with wooden floors - steam mirror wiped clean. Fingers split as a reminder – bones brothing in the black burned cauldron.steve robertshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11714025342869446899noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-12817623.post-16888112148667996702007-09-25T16:25:00.001-07:002007-09-25T18:56:02.053-07:00One Hundred and Forty-Fourth EntryNo excuses for how long it takes, I'm back with a new poem. I am losing steam though. I'm finding it harder and harder to balance my work and social life and girlfriend (yep) with my writing, but I work in cycles and I know it'll all come back. Also, I've been living with a horrible roommate, and we're finally getting rid of her. So maybe I'll spend more time at home working on things.<br /><br />p.s. Hi Steve Caratzas!<br /><br />Here's my poem:<br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">ALMOST VIRTUAL</span><br /><br />Sometimes I actually disappear.<br />The gloves for heroes leave no prints or traces -<br />not to say I am a hero for standing still<br />and shivering until the form is blurred<br />and breaking open the combination lock.<br />I ask everyone if I can help them,<br />sometimes repeatedly, in my uniform<br />at the mall, "here are tears," they say,<br />and hand me many jars of glossy<br />liquid. I empty them in the fountain<br />and walk off with collected wishes -<br />being fictional is like wearing flannel,<br />the pattern becomes you, its heaviness<br />surrounds your words - second week<br />in the bubble palace and my reports<br />have all come in just under the wire.<br /><br />The hero mask allows him or her<br />his or her privacy, the small spaces<br />in the apartment crevices - the sugar<br />dripping from the insect mouth -<br />in nature's mouth the filth is not filthy -<br />hideous is a burka used by patriots<br />in the real war - gentle noise brushing<br />your face in your sleep - my finger<br />when you don't know my finger.<br /><br />No one gets to see me because I'm your tongue.<br />You wear me and I have nothing to wear.steve robertshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11714025342869446899noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-12817623.post-28074809779225798772007-09-16T18:46:00.000-07:002007-09-16T18:48:57.335-07:00One Hundred and Forty Third EntrySooooo tired. And I have to be up very very early tomorrow. But I wrote a new poem and wanted to share it with you.<br /><br />Here's my poem:<br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">ALMOST VIRTUAL</span><br /><br />Sometimes I actually disappear -<br />it's late and I can walk on the tearful face of the dark god -<br />Brooklyn is a garbage-heap and it's all mine -<br />storefronts live by themselves with dull metal faces -<br />I wish in public, twittering like a nervous branch,<br />but my mouth controls my face - finds a way out -<br />there's no light behind the scrim -<br />I spit something into my eye -<br />my feet control the streetlights, unimportant hills<br />flatten, I disappear on the topic of photographs -<br />drawings stop looking like me -<br />items in my bed continue being there.<br /><br />Someone is into combining anecdotes<br />and transmogrifying them into people -<br />they love each other. I'd be listening<br />for them curled in sleep but my breathing<br />holds me back - echoes in hollow halls -<br />I know how to obtain silence - puzzles fall into place<br />when played backwards on tape - there is no weather<br />in the reflection of cars, but swelter here,<br />I peel off everything I can.steve robertshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11714025342869446899noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-12817623.post-9419396535799812302007-09-09T13:32:00.000-07:002007-09-09T13:35:45.271-07:00One Hundred and Forty Second EntrySorry about the pause, busy social life plus a new semester at school plus not feeling incredibly inspired equals not a lot of writing.<br /><br />Poems of mine have been accepted in a couple of places, not telling where yet until they come out.<br /><br />Hope you're having a nice day.<br /><br />Here's my poem:<br />SLEEVELESS TEE<br /><br />Plans to destroy the south.<br />Every newborn is pressed against tree<br />and reminded of history of lynching,<br />left to their own devices.<br />Many survive, new human territory<br />combined with bees, new hives,<br />skin formed from blood and detritus,<br />another <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_0">Cormac</span> <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_1">Mccarthy</span> novel.<br />Books on my shelf also include<br />particles of dust and the aroma<br />of indifference. Tried to get into apocalypse,<br />sweat-damp summer sheets,<br />me looking off in a direction.<br />Dirty floors and empty objects,<br />the wall <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_2">doesn</span>’t change for hours,<br />and the changes are minuscule.<br />Some sort of secret volcanic transition<br />beneath the surface. Eyes act funny,<br />eyes don’t record, and they don’t “see,”<br />only reflect images.<br /><br />The person I sort of knew died.<br />Clothes get folded and then stretched<br />over the body, crumpled-abandoned,<br />pushing chair back from desk<br />on its little wheels. Hell is the apathy<br />of loneliness, objects being piled<br />as they fall forming unwanted architecture.<br />The weather often inspires in me a parallel reaction<br /><br />I cover my summer body with blankets.<br /><br />What are those dust particles floating towards.<br /><br />I miss you<br /><br />I love poetry.steve robertshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11714025342869446899noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-12817623.post-23062979167658753612007-08-01T13:03:00.000-07:002007-08-01T13:06:29.439-07:00One Hundred and Forty-First Entry<span style="font-size:85%;">Nothing to update you about, but here's a new spreadsheet poem that I like.<br /><br />Here's my poem:<br /><br /></span> <table str="" style="border-collapse: collapse; width: 405px; height: 194px;" border="0" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0"><col style="width: 136pt;" width="181"> <col style="width: 65pt;" width="86"> <col style="width: 104pt;" width="138"> <col style="width: 103pt;" width="137"> <col style="width: 43pt;" width="57"> <tbody><tr style="height: 12.75pt;" height="17"> <td class="xl24" style="height: 12.75pt; width: 136pt;" height="17" width="181"><span style="font-size:85%;">fractured charm</span></td> <td class="xl24" style="width: 65pt;" width="86"><span style="font-size:85%;">girly</span></td> <td class="xl24" style="width: 104pt;" width="138"><span style="font-size:85%;">everyone attended</span></td> <td class="xl24" style="width: 103pt;" width="137"><span style="font-size:85%;">you better be sad</span></td> <td class="xl24" style="width: 43pt;" width="57"><span style="font-size:85%;"><br /></span></td> </tr> <tr style="height: 12.75pt;" height="17"> <td class="xl24" style="height: 12.75pt;" height="17"><span style="font-size:85%;">my first defense</span></td> <td class="xl24"><span style="font-size:85%;"><br /></span></td> <td class="xl24"><span style="font-size:85%;">you are inconsolate</span></td> <td class="xl24"><span style="font-size:85%;">prisoner's dilemma</span></td> <td class="xl24"><span style="font-size:85%;"><br /></span></td> </tr> <tr style="height: 12.75pt;" height="17"> <td class="xl24" style="height: 12.75pt;" height="17"><span style="font-size:85%;">somewhat irregular</span></td> <td class="xl24"><span style="font-size:85%;">hour</span></td> <td class="xl24"><span style="font-size:85%;">game theory</span></td> <td class="xl24"><span style="font-size:85%;">goodbye to the ending</span></td> <td class="xl24"><span style="font-size:85%;"><br /></span></td> </tr> <tr style="height: 12.75pt;" height="17"> <td class="xl24" style="height: 12.75pt;" height="17"><span style="font-size:85%;"><br /></span></td> <td class="xl24"><span style="font-size:85%;">wristwatch</span></td> <td class="xl24"><span style="font-size:85%;">false alarm</span></td> <td class="xl24"><span style="font-size:85%;">offset the threshhold</span></td> <td class="xl24"><span style="font-size:85%;">too early</span></td> </tr> <tr style="height: 12.75pt;" height="17"> <td class="xl24" style="height: 12.75pt;" height="17"><span style="font-size:85%;">your expression</span></td> <td class="xl24"><span style="font-size:85%;"><br /></span></td> <td class="xl24"><span style="font-size:85%;">the body is hollow</span></td> <td class="xl24"><span style="font-size:85%;">please leave</span></td> <td class="xl24"><span style="font-size:85%;"><br /></span></td> </tr> <tr style="height: 12.75pt;" height="17"> <td class="xl24" style="height: 12.75pt;" height="17"><span style="font-size:85%;">no courage</span></td> <td class="xl24"><span style="font-size:85%;">empty crater</span></td> <td class="xl24"><span style="font-size:85%;">take care of yourself</span></td> <td class="xl24"><span style="font-size:85%;">warm to the touch</span></td> <td class="xl24"><span style="font-size:85%;"><br /></span></td> </tr> <tr style="height: 12.75pt;" height="17"> <td class="xl24" style="height: 12.75pt;" height="17"><span style="font-size:85%;">destruction is easy</span></td> <td class="xl24"><span style="font-size:85%;"><br /></span></td> <td class="xl24"><span style="font-size:85%;">notified by intercom</span></td> <td class="xl24"><span style="font-size:85%;">sweat hiding in clothes</span></td> <td class="xl24"><span style="font-size:85%;"><br /></span></td> </tr> <tr style="height: 12.75pt;" height="17"> <td class="xl24" style="height: 12.75pt;" height="17"><span style="font-size:85%;"><br /></span></td> <td class="xl24"><span style="font-size:85%;">conversations</span></td> <td class="xl24"><span style="font-size:85%;">I want to make it alone</span></td> <td class="xl24"><span style="font-size:85%;"><br /></span></td> <td class="xl24"><span style="font-size:85%;"><br /></span></td> </tr> <tr style="height: 12.75pt;" height="17"> <td class="xl24" style="height: 12.75pt;" height="17"><span style="font-size:85%;">it even makes a hollow sound</span></td> <td class="xl24"><span style="font-size:85%;"><br /></span></td> <td class="xl24"><span style="font-size:85%;">theater lights come on</span></td> <td class="xl24"><span style="font-size:85%;">it has to be empty</span></td> <td class="xl24"><span style="font-size:85%;"><br /></span></td> </tr> <tr style="height: 12.75pt;" height="17"> <td style="height: 12.75pt;" height="17"><span style="font-size:85%;">but well kept</span></td> <td><span style="font-size:85%;"><br /></span></td> <td><span style="font-size:85%;">how content am I</span></td> <td><span style="font-size:85%;">dry as a bone</span></td> <td><span style="font-size:85%;"><br /></span></td> </tr> </tbody></table><span style="font-size:85%;"><br /></span>steve robertshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11714025342869446899noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-12817623.post-89223279540807434142007-07-31T13:40:00.000-07:002007-07-31T13:44:14.639-07:00One Hundred and Fourtieth Entry<span style="font-size:100%;">Ingmar Bergman died. That's a bummer. Things are going normally for me, although I'd like to be sending out and doing readings more. I'd just like to be writing more. Here's an idea I tried out using some original lines, some found lines, and Microsoft Excel.<br /><br />Here's my poem:<br /><br /></span> <table str="" style="border-collapse: collapse; width: 534pt;" border="0" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" width="712"><col style="width: 115pt;" width="153"> <col style="width: 50pt;" width="67"> <col style="width: 162pt;" width="216"> <col style="width: 145pt;" width="193"> <col style="width: 62pt;" width="83"> <tbody><tr style="height: 12.75pt;" height="17"> <td style="height: 12.75pt; width: 115pt;" height="17" width="153"><span style="font-size:78%;">Grammar</span></td> <td style="width: 50pt;" width="67"><span style="font-size:78%;">willing</span></td> <td style="width: 162pt;" width="216"><span style="font-size:78%;"><br /></span></td> <td style="width: 145pt;" width="193"><span style="font-size:78%;">whatever the falling object hits</span></td> <td style="width: 62pt;" width="83"><span style="font-size:78%;"><br /></span></td> </tr> <tr style="height: 12.75pt;" height="17"> <td style="height: 12.75pt;" str="notified by the members " height="17"><span style="font-size:78%;">notified by the members<span style=""> </span></span></td> <td><span style="font-size:78%;"><br /></span></td> <td><span style="font-size:78%;">lean the drain</span></td> <td><span style="font-size:78%;"><br /></span></td> <td><span style="font-size:78%;"><br /></span></td> </tr> <tr style="height: 12.75pt;" height="17"> <td style="height: 12.75pt;" height="17"><span style="font-size:78%;">golden heart in harmony</span></td> <td><span style="font-size:78%;"><br /></span></td> <td><span style="font-size:78%;">hand emptied of flying object</span></td> <td><span style="font-size:78%;">speedway</span></td> <td><span style="font-size:78%;"><br /></span></td> </tr> <tr style="height: 12.75pt;" height="17"> <td style="height: 12.75pt;" height="17"><span style="font-size:78%;">terrible</span></td> <td><span style="font-size:78%;"><br /></span></td> <td><span style="font-size:78%;">personal defense and "competition"</span></td> <td><span style="font-size:78%;"><br /></span></td> <td><span style="font-size:78%;"><br /></span></td> </tr> <tr style="height: 12.75pt;" height="17"> <td style="height: 12.75pt;" height="17"><span style="font-size:78%;"><br /></span></td> <td><span style="font-size:78%;"><br /></span></td> <td><span style="font-size:78%;">cruel breath rejected from body</span></td> <td><span style="font-size:78%;">fried terribly on the open ground</span></td> <td><span style="font-size:78%;"><br /></span></td> </tr> <tr style="height: 12.75pt;" height="17"> <td style="height: 12.75pt;" height="17"><span style="font-size:78%;">celebrity by statement</span></td> <td><span style="font-size:78%;">category</span></td> <td><span style="font-size:78%;"><br /></span></td> <td><span style="font-size:78%;"><br /></span></td> <td><span style="font-size:78%;"><br /></span></td> </tr> <tr style="height: 12.75pt;" height="17"> <td style="height: 12.75pt;" height="17"><span style="font-size:78%;">fictional superhero</span></td> <td><span style="font-size:78%;"><br /></span></td> <td><span style="font-size:78%;">abstract psychology</span></td> <td><span style="font-size:78%;"><br /></span></td> <td><span style="font-size:78%;">fighting nobly</span></td> </tr> <tr style="height: 12.75pt;" height="17"> <td style="height: 12.75pt;" height="17"><span style="font-size:78%;">dipped in fruit frenzy</span></td> <td><span style="font-size:78%;"><br /></span></td> <td><span style="font-size:78%;"><br /></span></td> <td><span style="font-size:78%;">goofy friend</span></td> <td><span style="font-size:78%;"><br /></span></td> </tr> <tr style="height: 12.75pt;" height="17"> <td style="height: 12.75pt;" height="17"><span style="font-size:78%;"><br /></span></td> <td><span style="font-size:78%;"><br /></span></td> <td><span style="font-size:78%;">now</span></td> <td><span style="font-size:78%;">business and manufacturing</span></td> <td><span style="font-size:78%;"><br /></span></td> </tr> <tr style="height: 12.75pt;" height="17"> <td style="height: 12.75pt;" height="17"><span style="font-size:78%;">hierarchical database</span></td> <td><span style="font-size:78%;">introduced</span></td> <td><span style="font-size:78%;"><br /></span></td> <td><span style="font-size:78%;">should it be required</span></td> <td><span style="font-size:78%;"><br /></span></td> </tr> <tr style="height: 12.75pt;" height="17"> <td style="height: 12.75pt;" height="17"><span style="font-size:78%;"><br /></span></td> <td><span style="font-size:78%;"><br /></span></td> <td><span style="font-size:78%;">intercourse with an orderly</span></td> <td><span style="font-size:78%;">white women celebrities</span></td> <td><span style="font-size:78%;"><br /></span></td> </tr> <tr style="height: 12.75pt;" height="17"> <td style="height: 12.75pt;" height="17"><span style="font-size:78%;">national airline</span></td> <td><span style="font-size:78%;"><br /></span></td> <td><span style="font-size:78%;">conditions of animal</span></td> <td><span style="font-size:78%;"><br /></span></td> <td><span style="font-size:78%;"><br /></span></td> </tr> <tr style="height: 12.75pt;" height="17"> <td style="height: 12.75pt;" height="17"><span style="font-size:78%;"><br /></span></td> <td><span style="font-size:78%;">number</span></td> <td><span style="font-size:78%;">failed to take a seat</span></td> <td><span style="font-size:78%;">press harder</span></td> <td><span style="font-size:78%;"><br /></span></td> </tr> <tr style="height: 12.75pt;" height="17"> <td style="height: 12.75pt;" height="17"><span style="font-size:78%;">prime money market</span></td> <td><span style="font-size:78%;"><br /></span></td> <td><span style="font-size:78%;">attach faces to diseases</span></td> <td><span style="font-size:78%;"><br /></span></td> <td><span style="font-size:78%;"><br /></span></td> </tr> </tbody></table>steve robertshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11714025342869446899noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-12817623.post-57427102786405868982007-07-25T08:22:00.000-07:002007-07-30T10:12:04.945-07:00One Hundred and Thirty-Ninth EntryI've always loved the Kenneth Koch poem "To You," which Robert Pinsky talks about on <a href="http://www.washingtonpost.com/wp-dyn/content/article/2007/07/19/AR2007071902099_pf.html">Poet's Choice</a>. Although he says very little, Pinsky's characterization of wanting to give his "You" something more significant than metaphors to sunshine and flowers, and by using quirky yet touching comparisons like "laid a red roof in her heart" he makes this poem particular to one person. Too many poems, not only of the love variety but of every kind, settle with something acceptable as metaphor, some comparison the poet knows his audience is quick to understand. Koch's poems were risky because of his allowance of cheekiness, humor, and ribald sexuality (not that he raised any eyebrows, but it's still hard to get taken seriously with overt sexuality in poetry. Unless you're Jorie Graham.) This poem inspired me to write not about what I thought I "should be" writing about (dead trees, thunderstorms, the human condition) but about reality, which is full of odd and funny moments even on your worst days. Michael Shurtleff wrote in Audition that he hated to see actors play super-serious in dramas. If you're at a funeral the last thing you want to do is be sad; you try everything in your power to avoid those dreary emotions, which makes you crack jokes and hit on women at a wake. Anyway, "To You" is one of my favorite Koch poems, and a great love poem, and I'm glad I read Silliman's blog today to find that up there.<br /><br />Here's my poem:<br /><br /><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size:78%;"><b style="">EVERY DAY AGAIN</b><o:p><br /></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size:78%;">Dried cat parts, heavy on solid hot pavement equals summer.<br />In the apartment, something comes from the refrigerator, an odor, a presence.<br />Cat combines with cigarette butts and dirt from shoe scuffs.<br />The way standing in front of the refrigerator means you’re alone.<br />Combines drift from their cornfields to attack the city.<br />Way in the distance past cop cars and firecrackers.<br />Drift into the bedroom, heat rising from the tenants below.<br />In the refrigerator, plants and animals harden their hearts.<br /><o:p> </o:p><br />Almost feeling a kinship with the cat, connection of mammals.<br />For example, knowing how the fish feels while being gutted.<br />Combines almost near the point of contact.<br />Reaching for the light switch and finding the door.<br />See outside how the inside looks, how a stranger sees your house.<br />Instant weather punctuates the personal anti-climax.<br />You see your coat as blue, darker where wet, hanging lifelessly.<br />One instant is commentary on the last, meat still runs as animal.</span></p> <span style="text-decoration: underline;"></span>steve robertshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11714025342869446899noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-12817623.post-83691044397649808142007-07-24T12:19:00.000-07:002007-07-24T12:20:33.028-07:00One Hundred and Thirty-Eighth EntryHere's a little diddy that has no connection to Bad Vibes. I'm not sure if Bad Vibes is over or not, but I think it might be. There was only so far I could go with it. Maybe the next project will mesh with it somehow.<br /><br />Here's my poem:<br /> <p class="MsoNormal"><o:p><span style="font-weight: bold;">PYRAMID</span><br /></o:p></p> <p class="MsoNormal">It is in packing and unpacking, now, the amassed stories of individual happiness, it is in packing up and moving to the new office. It is in taking everything from the pockets. It is standing in front of the machine, waiting for the machine to work. It is in thinking of where the machine was built with tools, it is in thinking of where the tools were built by machines. It is in climbing into the machine. It is in processing food into something edible. It is in unpacking everything from the pockets, it is in noting the temperature in the logs. It is in talking to the machine, it is in noting the time in the logs, in noting the date in the logs. It is in filling the body with the necessities of life. It is in turning the lock with the key. It is in pressing keys that signify numbers and letters. It is in adjusting the temperature for human livability. It is in turning the machine’s dial until communication is reached, it is in talking into the machine. It is in allowing the machine to record voice patterns which indicate information, it is in ones and zeroes that, when combined, decode into patterns. I’m resolved now that it is in these patterns. It is in entering the new office with the old body. It is in amassing the stories of individual happiness. It is in organizing these stories in an understandable system. It is in storing these amassed stories and moving on. It is in these stories where patterns emerge. </p>steve robertshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11714025342869446899noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-12817623.post-34264287350286322562007-07-17T09:01:00.000-07:002007-07-17T09:18:42.925-07:00One Hundred and Thirty-Seventh EntryAlmost through with <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_0">Lethem's</span> Fortress of Solitude. Just burning through the books these days, and still it seems like I'm out every night, never getting any chance to sleep. Not sure what I want to read next, maybe one of the Cheever or Boll books I bought but never read.<br /><br />Also, my other blog, <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_1">KA</span> <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_2">SHEE</span> <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_3">STEES</span>, has <a href="http://kasheestees.wordpress.com/">moved</a>. Respond accordingly.<br /><br />Here's my poem:<br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;font-size:78%;" >KIND ANIMAL</span><span style="font-size:78%;"><br /><br />Broken marble piled atop marble,<br />the remnants of my spreadsheet - screed transcribed in wall-scratch,<br />cement autographed - my neighborhood succumbs to the swell of pixels -<br />material assembling itself into aggressive nuclei, over-ripe produce -<br />this isn't my Creation, just a wet day with a bad friend<br />digging into my pockets, trying to sanctify a morsel of flesh.<br /><br />I blended into the bread of the wholesome table,<br />white of the calendar border dampened by body-fluid -<br />I slip on the calendars, twisting to remember the argument<br />in which I cover a human female in plasticine,<br />hands feeling wooden, caked and saturated as I ski my fingers<br />over what is not really your flesh.<br /><br />I roll on the carpet sparking miniature furies;<br />light rain puddles the window, soaks the trinkets of the average dwelling -<br />alone and dull, glossy with shock, the animal stares at its trap -<br />frozen burg reflects out of </span><span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_4" style="font-size:78%;">primitive's</span><span style="font-size:78%;"> beard - here's a city<br />to you, music played in daylight, lights on in a clean room<br />where the rabbit twitches and rattles, its delicacy devolving into a plea.<br /><br />Wine bottle gone, underneath the waviness of your bodies.<br />You form together like warm candles on a fool's errand -<br />a sad fondness graying this campsite into a memory,<br />tomorrow you will snap under a falling rock,<br />watching me die while you and your friend enter into<br />a lonely fraternity, your eyes scorched to the retinas<br /><br />by an endless succession of dawns, lungs filling with<br />pine needles, dust and fur. The sepia-tone highway<br />will carry me next like the sea its travellers,<br />reliant on mercy and a wind in the right direction.<br />My chrysalis is ever-present. I rejoice as even now<br />I feel the new bruises swell, scars from the buds forming on my limbs.</span>steve robertshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11714025342869446899noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-12817623.post-37218810750198826522007-07-10T07:27:00.000-07:002007-07-12T09:04:23.774-07:00One Hundred and Thirty-Sixth EntryI know it's not as hot as it's been but it seems to be getting hotter every day. Busy as always, there's been a pleasant surprise pretty much every day these days. Making it tough to keep in the "bad mood" I put into the poems I'm working on. I'm only going to write about 20 of these (if I can) and then work on another project, either Dr. Strange (I've mentioned this to some of you) or a project I have been tentatively been calling "Me Reading A Book." Mysterious, no? Ultimately the two (or three) projects I hope to put together into a manuscript, while fixing/shopping around my <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_0">napowrimo</span>-inspired manuscript, VS.<br /><br />Here's my poem:<br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">THE SHAH</span><br /><br />Slept in the audio shed, glass housing the shark-bait-<br />new video game, a good dream, no talking,<br />shoot towards the sound of the shape,<br />commence entrance of cartridge, spaceship<br />program inside the bloodstream, being turned off,<br />body turning over-a clear pandering maneuver-<br />don't ask our makers for approval once too often,<br />don't burst out those salty trucker tears.<br /><br />Now hacksaw, now muscular trucker's arm,<br />the navy is built on bulk wrestlers with<br />irregular tans. On the night in question<br />we were arrested in another county for<br />something less spooky. I'm in love with<br />the concept of the convertible, how<br />should I go about marketing it?<br />The face is a sponge for entropy<br />and the entropy goes right in here:<br />correctives given have done their job,<br />now we can move him, put the tools<br />back in the trunk and scatter.steve robertshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11714025342869446899noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-12817623.post-64230429858522481612007-07-08T16:57:00.000-07:002007-07-08T17:15:54.006-07:00One Hundred Thirty-Fifth EntryBeen working pretty hard (for me, anyway) and been busy besides, so I haven't had the time nor the energy to keep up with Bad Vibes. But, I finished Ed Sanders' THE FAMILY finally!! I broke that book's back! No literally, the spine on the book is super-messed up to where it's basically trash. Now that I've read two super heavy books on the subject of killing people, I'm taking a break to read Jonathan <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_0">Lethem's</span> Fortress of Solitude, recommended (and left at my house) by Will. I've been saying "yeah, yeah, I think this guy sucks, but I just want to read something stupid and light after the Family," but that's b.s. and I should come clean. I've read him before, and although I had my complaints, they mostly had to do with his self-centered essays, and now I'm reading his novel, which is supposed to be self-centered, and it's a pretty good read. I'm already a fifth of the way through it, and it's a big book. Feel free to suggest something for me to read in the future, keeping in mind I need to get back on the "Bad Vibes" train and read something regarding evil.<br /><br />Here's my poem:<br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">BAD VIBES/</span><span style="font-weight: bold;" class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_1">GIDGET</span><span style="font-weight: bold;"> COMES HOME</span><br /><br />The van, patches of color,<br />cheap paint-overs and rust<br />lives on in <span class="blsp-spelling-corrected" id="SPELLING_ERROR_2">hibernation</span>-<br />side of the mountain road-<br />here is a book of acquaintances<br />to the act, those who watched<br />her but never met. Holes<br />struck in <span class="blsp-spelling-corrected" id="SPELLING_ERROR_3">upholstery</span> by who<br />knows what: the history<br />of who knows what. Squirmy,<br />indifferent little lonely people,<br />itching, convulsing to be claimed<br />at the crowded depot where my bags<br />are laid next to my seat.<br /><br />The edge has gone dull. No one<br />told me. I can't start a fire with it<br />and I can't rig a phone and call<br />home, and this sticker won't come off.<br /><br />Names of interest slip through her speech<br />when I don't expect. Sticker had a joke<br />on it-not funny now. Maybe never.<br />Certainly didn't go over in court,<br />should have worn something fancy,<br />said something worth remembering<br />now, talking to you about safe topics,<br />my clan's mythology clearly not panning out.<br />She's wearing parts of me on the outside,<br />showing the bloody night my clothes,<br />used to sit outside and wait,<br />in flames with a scary optimism-<br />shake around all night and call it<br />a dance, speak telepathically<br />(or used to) with my girl.<br /><br />Don't go vacant on me now. The only thing<br />I still need is the future-mask made out of<br />my hair, up the road dragging the rope<br />made out of jeans torn out at the seams<br />and the getaway won't drive itself.steve robertshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11714025342869446899noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-12817623.post-10323339272532582482007-07-03T07:01:00.000-07:002007-07-03T10:30:28.499-07:00One Hundred and Thirty-Fourth EntryWhat are you guys doing for the fourth? I haven't decided whose roof I will be on and with whom, couple of choices for each. Should I go to roof A or roof B? And with person A or person B? DECISIONS. But freedom of choice is what makes our country sort of great. Although South America is looking pretty good. And Egypt looks great now that they abolished female circumcision. Way to go, dead fifteen year old girl!<br /><br />Almost done with Ed Sanders' The Family, and it was pretty tedious for awhile but now it's getting good again. Oh by the way, the Manson family probably didn't kill their lawyer, sounds like the guy drowned in a flash flood. But this other cat, the English satanist? Oh, did he kill people (probably), and is he ever at large. Sweet Dreams. After I get done with this I'm going to read a novel, something stupid and light, probably the Jonathan <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_0">Lethem</span> book Will lent me.<br /><br />p.s. My sister is getting married again! Yay!<br /><br />Here's my poem:<br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">THE BACKYARD</span><br /><br />Everyone should be happy with their motor-<br />the tempo at which we hang from black wire<br />hoping to fall because that's more fun,<br /><span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_1">nightmaring</span> about our obligation-<br />the dry powder on tongue-good for some-<br />breakfast leaves you sunning hungry,<br />the summer calling you away from the asphalt-<br />a chorus of backs turning, sudden gust drying cheeks.<br /><br />It's cool to holler into the mouth<br />of the dry wash-squeeze your head<br />into the skull, listen to the <span class="blsp-spelling-corrected" id="SPELLING_ERROR_2">privileged</span><br />denizens of nature, blood replacing<br />skin. Museum planner of wayward emotion,<br />pity me that I don't answer my phone-too busy<br />with the inexpensive golden cord, imagine<br />in all directions what we might hang it from,<br />what might hang from it. Rice and boulders<br />are no longer a game, and have become Wednesday-<br />flies congregate in the bed, the river smells<br />of a fond spring season, stuff did not bloom-<br />the leather would not adhere itself to the strap.steve robertshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11714025342869446899noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-12817623.post-54213083875591330552007-06-26T08:56:00.000-07:002007-06-26T10:37:30.725-07:00One Hundred and Thirty-Third EntryFor those of you not in the know, the IRS sucks big bones.<br /><br />The mermaid parade was cool this year and I didn't get too badly sunburned. Gina has some pictures of the floats (and I believe one of us, actually) <a href="http://flickr.com/photos/ginabird/">here</a>. Rode the Cyclone for the first time with Scotty. Well, not with him, as we were both "too big" to have anybody else in our car with us. Oppression.<br />Still working on Bad Vibes, having interesting conversations with literally everyone about evil. Is it merely the absence of good or is it an actual thing? You be the judge. As with other poems of mine, I think that my purpose here is largely to try and avoid the subject, but allow the subject to seep in anyway.<br /><br />Today's poem has a title that's directly correlative to the Charles Manson story, chiefly the antics of one of his main disciples, Sadie Mae Glutz. I quote Ed Sanders in his reference to a seemingly strange statement made by her parole officer regarding her release from a marijuana charge some months before the occurrence of the murders.<br /><br />"Sadie managed to pull off a charm job on the deputy probation officer up there, one David Mandel, because he wrote a sympathetic probation report, which might be called the damaged soul document. It concludes, "Your Honor, it is our opinion that incarceration for this defendant would be of little or no use to society or to herself. Even while she was still a minor, she was well on her way to a career of minor confidence-style operations, high styled prostitution and prostitution of herself in a more general sense, as an object of entertainment and vicarious satisfaction for other damaged souls.""<br /><br />Essentially he was saying that although she was guilty of crimes and would continue to be a lifelong criminal, jailing her would do no good because she was a born reprobate. The thinking behind this is strange, and it intrigues me. But the poem has almost nothing to do with that, as usual.<br /><br />Here's my poem:<br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">DAMAGED SOUL DOCUMENT</span><br /><br />Big hand on the keyboard, diagonal<br />striped glove, difficult to remember past<br />christmases, the blur of memory, several<br />coffee cup stains, row of imperfect circles.<br /><br />Moron wanted to be the life of parties<br />unknown. The woods, several years ago.<br />Annual rememberance of empty box.<br />I don't want to use the word 'you' anymore.<br /><br />New and selected strands of hair, mix<br />myself a poison, call it a potion, endless<br />nights on the couch, party with wine,<br />restless clothesline begins to flap.<br /><br />My glow is not alive. Someone<br />has spread blankets over ourselves,<br />morning is sneaking up. Car won't start.<br />Parties are the in-between, these moments.steve robertshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11714025342869446899noreply@blogger.com0