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.

One Hundred and Forty-Sixth Entry

Why 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.

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.

Here's my poem:

CHANT II

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.

One Hundred and Forty Fifth Entry

I'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 somewhere in Manhattan in November so watch out for that. In the meantime, here's a kind of halloween-ish one.

Here's my poem:

CHANT

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.

One Hundred and Forty-Fourth Entry

No 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.

p.s. Hi Steve Caratzas!

Here's my poem:

ALMOST VIRTUAL

Sometimes I actually disappear.
The gloves for heroes leave no prints or traces -
not to say I am a hero for standing still
and shivering until the form is blurred
and breaking open the combination lock.
I ask everyone if I can help them,
sometimes repeatedly, in my uniform
at the mall, "here are tears," they say,
and hand me many jars of glossy
liquid. I empty them in the fountain
and walk off with collected wishes -
being fictional is like wearing flannel,
the pattern becomes you, its heaviness
surrounds your words - second week
in the bubble palace and my reports
have all come in just under the wire.

The hero mask allows him or her
his or her privacy, the small spaces
in the apartment crevices - the sugar
dripping from the insect mouth -
in nature's mouth the filth is not filthy -
hideous is a burka used by patriots
in the real war - gentle noise brushing
your face in your sleep - my finger
when you don't know my finger.

No one gets to see me because I'm your tongue.
You wear me and I have nothing to wear.

One Hundred and Forty Third Entry

Sooooo tired. And I have to be up very very early tomorrow. But I wrote a new poem and wanted to share it with you.

Here's my poem:

ALMOST VIRTUAL

Sometimes I actually disappear -
it's late and I can walk on the tearful face of the dark god -
Brooklyn is a garbage-heap and it's all mine -
storefronts live by themselves with dull metal faces -
I wish in public, twittering like a nervous branch,
but my mouth controls my face - finds a way out -
there's no light behind the scrim -
I spit something into my eye -
my feet control the streetlights, unimportant hills
flatten, I disappear on the topic of photographs -
drawings stop looking like me -
items in my bed continue being there.

Someone is into combining anecdotes
and transmogrifying them into people -
they love each other. I'd be listening
for them curled in sleep but my breathing
holds me back - echoes in hollow halls -
I know how to obtain silence - puzzles fall into place
when played backwards on tape - there is no weather
in the reflection of cars, but swelter here,
I peel off everything I can.

One Hundred and Forty Second Entry

Sorry about the pause, busy social life plus a new semester at school plus not feeling incredibly inspired equals not a lot of writing.

Poems of mine have been accepted in a couple of places, not telling where yet until they come out.

Hope you're having a nice day.

Here's my poem:
SLEEVELESS TEE

Plans to destroy the south.
Every newborn is pressed against tree
and reminded of history of lynching,
left to their own devices.
Many survive, new human territory
combined with bees, new hives,
skin formed from blood and detritus,
another Cormac Mccarthy novel.
Books on my shelf also include
particles of dust and the aroma
of indifference. Tried to get into apocalypse,
sweat-damp summer sheets,
me looking off in a direction.
Dirty floors and empty objects,
the wall doesn’t change for hours,
and the changes are minuscule.
Some sort of secret volcanic transition
beneath the surface. Eyes act funny,
eyes don’t record, and they don’t “see,”
only reflect images.

The person I sort of knew died.
Clothes get folded and then stretched
over the body, crumpled-abandoned,
pushing chair back from desk
on its little wheels. Hell is the apathy
of loneliness, objects being piled
as they fall forming unwanted architecture.
The weather often inspires in me a parallel reaction

I cover my summer body with blankets.

What are those dust particles floating towards.

I miss you

I love poetry.