Category Archives: #abstract

May 30, 2022

GONZALES TEXAS

By EPRobles

Slick side went bottom up inside
& Lenny spoke a word –> got shot for
speaking of the scene where we
lost the love and all the dough
inside a place called Gonzales, Texas.

Weiner beaner drove the car
seemed all the way to Saigon
until we meet the fuzz —
that’s 7.62 for all of you
not of the clan who kill ‘us
like hungry gorillas.

Saw the judge who makes faces
dramatic fellow who smokes
court recorder confessed
what a colossal mess of self-
delusion/soul transfusion\

Police officer on that scene
says, “Bewildered but so beautiful.”
Boy on a bicycle saw it all —

“Judge, i swear they were clowns
going to a party.”

And the one who holds a sickle
wearing all black without a face
smiled. He hid his .44 for mercy.

What more to say?

:: 05.29.2022 ::

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May 30, 2022

INVALID CODE

By EPRobles

ANTS bite sun burns love tickles
memories melt /hell smells\ an hallucination
Nation is a body — like my secret friend

someone like darkness says i look like
a rattle twisted snake but kisses instead
of bites :: a dot com a mystery media
commercial sound byte ~~~ a crack inside
the skies with baby cooing soothing tears
and tasting the dark cloud rains oh let it rain
: i will master all this blasphemy while the angels
change their clothes to get dirty inside the
human angle of life — especially on weekends
like Friday.

Spielberg gave me 73 cents in my last dream
and another i forgot to set global language
on SharePoint / ? this is a story a true story
based upon a ephedra lie ~~ now all history!

:: 05.29.2022 ::

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December 29, 2021

SEE ME WHILE THE WIND BLOWS THROUGH MY SOUL

By EPRobles

I am here with Favorites
and I am with No One
I am Love and the world Hates
Inside mental Estates
Compared upon merits
by profane scarlet objects
universal law sealed false
bonds of Love as oft as mine!

:: 12.28.2021 ::

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July 21, 2021

MY DREAMS TAKE ME HOME

By EPRobles

Wave to me and say, “only one single tear as a symbol of the price I pay for loving.”

Why do I search for that shining Soul I love and search the page for that name
written in the most elegant hand?

And why do I know that one look will last forever
but if I give up this hope it will destroy me?

Why can’t I sleep with my heart in my mouth, like a bell
that rings only for the grave?

The crickets are at peace and there is a choir singing
so now there is no room for thoughts to speak …
and love stops
and love falls
on everything that’s not.

The rain is turning and the water glistens
at my feet with tears mixed with raindrops.

Now the sky’s too bright and my eyes are saying,
“I can’t see through the mist for I am too tall and
too dark.”

O my dreams.
Take me home.
Take me home.
My dream take
me home.

:: 07.21.2021 ::

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May 10, 2021

FLOWERS AND GOSSAMER

By EPRobles

EACH morning comes and we are dying
ONE year passes and more are born
i walk in fields of flowers and gossamer
and fell into a hole with stars and nebula passing
and caterpillars singing before they have wings
and a red panda kisses my cheek and explains this is
where things go when one dreams while walking.

— so hooka man in your small corner closing in upon
your jelly brain gets up and dances again
oh little rolly-polly you are a cute ball
and my brain lost logic and proportion and words
and numbers dissolve at the dawn of common sense.

We are told to believe some things
We are punished for doing many things
We are clean as a Spirit and Soul
but then as always — life takes its toll

Be safe around busy eyes and hold upon a wind
the secret words you believe in
allow no parrot to squawk within the room of
your private thoughts

Oh! Live! Be different and be your own friend!
Be your own friend!

:: 05.09.2021 ::

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April 23, 2021

THE SILVER AXE

By EPRobles

He wondered with horror how so many memories, so many forms to be branded on his skin and engrave there.

Then the wet rattle of a twisted throat, and he beats his last breath to his knees, gazed on from above as the wheezing thing sagged, and began on his shoes.

One God looked in that one eye of him, took in the whole writhing weight of him, and, from the spine of that beast, blew the darkness that will not let me alone!

It is yet again where we find the Poet’s Muse. Her eyes are green, and they pierce backward and forward even into his head and his heart, his brain and his soul.

I have been chained to this post for six months and now I am to be hanged, it’s a winter morning, half-light.

The axe’s face is pale; its teeth are ready to cut; the poet stands slack-jawed; and waits with a satisfied grimace.

She smiles with blind malignity; I am hanging here, she begins, and her voice gears in his head, makes him mad with every anger and whimpers sound with a silver-sparkle, It is another wish shattered, this one made to whittle the Golden Ace’s life down to a ring so narrow and brutish and pale and inhuman.

The writer cannot see her but his ears are mad With unspoken sounds.

She has left dark-green circles.

He had tried to fill them with wonder and beauty; she: they’re her, only more so, every blot and abrasion cunningly and by dark cunning by her own hand, ever more revolting; why the hell did you bring that creature with you?

There is nothing for you to do, (the axe growls). You cannot even reach me.

I told you that I wanted the axe.

Then are you sure you’re not just nervous?

I am telling you nothing.

The truth is harsh.

This is not true.

Well then stop worrying.

I am telling you nothing!

The Poet looks up in alarm.

The axe comes down, it makes a hideous, brassy sound.

And it is still: I am telling you nothing!

Her face is as white as that of the blade.

He is sweating.

I do not want the axe, he says finally.

I am coming down!

A chuckle.

The axe’s blade is laughing.

The Poet spins in place, does a somersault, lands on his feet.

He moves fast.

At the touch of his right foot he has snatched up and spun into the air, caught, dangled over a canyon by the thin tip of his finger.

There is a rattle in his head.

Okay, okay, he whispers, I am coming down.

He lands and slumps, panting.

His face is flushing red, his hair disheveled.

He grins through the tears running down his face.

Just me, he tells the axe.

You are alone in this awful place with all the stupid, insane weirdoes.

Where is the fun in that?

This place is for people like you, not me.

He is in a mood.

The axe slashes through the air, a silver blur.

The Poet leaps into its path, somehow knowing, somehow having seen what it will do before it happens.

He leaps back and the axe cleaves the air, then comes down to strike his left foot, where it clatters on the ground with a dull clatter.

He starts to bend over to pick it up, but the axe’s weight is too much for him.

He stumbles to one knee and falls to his left side.

The axe rests, not quite pointed at him, but ready, at his right leg and stares at it, mouth slightly ajar.

The blade is warm against his right leg, the handle warm against his cheek.

He gets himself up, he bends over, picks up the axe.

He kicks his right leg up, the axe goes flying past his body as if to his left, and he stretches his left leg out to catch it.

He pulls himself to his feet and does not bother with the blade and bends down to retrieve it, and reaches, but there is nothing there.

The edge is dull. Within his mind and he frowns, picks it up, holds it up in front of him, glances behind him.

The axe is nowhere to be found. But it is mentally within his hand.

He looks at the blue-gray sky, frowns, turns to walk along the canyon wall, head down, watching for the axe.

He waits.

The axe sits on his shoulder, blades jutting up into his neck or so it feels.

Yes! he thinks.

The axe.

It is not true.

He is all alone in the world.

And an old man.

What do you expect him to do?

He thinks about the little old lady he saw in town today, and starts to weep.

:: 04.23.2021 ::

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April 23, 2021

THE VORTEX OF LIFE

By EPRobles

AND what is a friendship without warm feelings and devotion?
As those who go to and fro from bed to work without
a gentle smile or hello!
I would share a drink with you but first i must be sure
the label is not high alcohol but a label that reads either:
“life,” or “death.”
As the sun dips behind Mother Earth we eat and clean ourselves
then ready for bed. We read, watch something on the magic box
called television or stare at the walls. Some dream, some smoke,
some drink, some fight. Who is mad? All of us! Call it what you like
but the moral of that is — ‘Oh, ’tis love, ’tis love, that makes
the world goes round!’

Our human intentions only make matters worse!

Then the turtle spoke: “Those lovers we read about: to all the characters
drawing in colourful lines… you keep emotions at an anchor deep inside so
you can move far above the bubbles’ tricks — but the people swimming in
fish-glasses are freaked out. So many lives spilled, even all living simple
souls, cannot sustain the waters of love.

:: 04.22.2021 ::

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March 29, 2021

VEGETABLES

By EPRobles

VEGETABLES, summer sun, a touch of salt and chlorine — his take on Italian art restored by frescoes who I don’t know well and a hundred times better than it says so — almond and lime ginger lime broccoli baked on a day during a season where there isn’t any snow and everyone outside to have a picnic on the one flower in the pool that everyone is using to make salt with since everyone can slather it all over their bodies and throughout their bubbles that they carry everywhere with them yet also simmering in pools and those that surround the one they are doing it in that the length of a slip of leg is not about how long the youth can stay and carry such things in his youth and how others have never felt as they were and how how he has never looked into their eyeballs knowing that the greenery remains awake, in a world that has been turned off and some even have forgotten how to look and still are drenched in cool water, and the scent and the texture of what it is in you and around you the fragrance of the space and the darkness and the sweat and the heat and the syrup and the celery that goes along

:: 03.28.2021 ::

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March 24, 2021

FRAMELESS HEADS UPON EMPTY WALLS

By EPRobles

On the single side of my art song—my parodic air—the loveliness is perfect
because I am “last in the line.” When you sit there pondering how you got
from here to there, you forget to be there, and the years hurry by like birds,
yet without wings.

Maybe that is what poets mean by the grass between the toes: it is the kind of beauty
that strikes me as singular, and then makes me forget where I was going.

Could that be the air I am inhaling, that gorgeous little dew, the sort of fragrance
that one asks questions about. That one is good, and leaves you for another week.
I am not asking about the individual, about the wit or the sex, that one; the other
thinks she is too good for poetry and wants to hang out her pants.

The trees on Central Park West have not only dimples, but very high struts.
Many passers-by make like jumping spiders and creep along the white beech bark,
tearing off the strange multicolored pods that are the leaves of the American locust
and varnish the unenclosed bark.

For a while they seem to be all yellow, then the green reasserts itself and they all turn red.
Red like earth, red like hell. I say what I mean. Why do we make so much of appearance
and so little of meaning? If you were to sneeze on a weekday you’d make a million dollars. I’m lucky
to get one or two dollars a day for my poems, and that’s all. All my life, I’ve been scraping
and clipping in hundreds of un-sexy places. I once walked out of an interview with a magazine
that had hired me because I was willing to work for peanuts. So I said to the editor,

“I think you have the wrong guy. I’ll get a job in a steel mill, or on a frickin’ airplane,
anywhere I want.” He seemed to like that, but I can’t remember what the magazine did later. I suppose
it was less than they wanted. But that’s what I mean by avoiding the cheap. I mean always for the mind
and the intellect, as if one day the outer world were going to fall apart. When it does, maybe it will be like a tenement balcony—the floor’s going to fall out from under us.

My best poems are about love and death. I think my best poems are about women and death.
The romantic poems give me pleasure. I don’t want to forget about them; I want
to love them. I don’t want to kill them; I want to hold them.
A love that is not really love doesn’t interest me.
It is interesting to see the Queen of Sheba swat away a red and yellow butterfly that comes to you
and likes to rest on your shoulder.

But there are different kinds of love—one that wants to hold someone in a tight embrace even though
you both know that someone is going to shake loose—one that wants to hold someone
even when she’s going to leave—one that wants to hold someone when she has long learnt the fine art
of saying no.

I’m always looking for “the little door.” But there is no little door, and if there were,
I’d probably find something I’d rather do.

:: 03.24.2021 ::

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March 7, 2021

THE HELMSMEN ROSE

By EPRobles

\by the way, the land ?”
cocked a brow \of our own separate shores, the moon was lit to see the
stacks of hay bare, all brawny with large pairs of eyes beneath cabbage green skin, two spit clouds hovered from their open mouth, making a cat-like call, then leaped into the sky in somersault, and back to their stooks they proceeded, smoothing their chins with their hands.

— the world might have cared but these men, they were chasers; for us they took up together, and uncharged by fear, raised their sword over their heads.

side by side the helmsmen, looking with eyes of pale ice, drawn swords with an eager desire.
flick- the swords’ fingers moved as the helmsmen stepped out into the ice-caught wind, and went down to their knees and stood still and ice-smacked.

The first helmsman fell in battle, a broadsword strike cut clean through his face and dug deep into his chest, the blood spurted out, as each helmsman stood silently in a pose of stone — then the second helmsman from the right hurried with a cold, light of steel, to strike and the echo of his leap echoed through the air to strike from the left, their opposing lines locked in an invisible tug-of-war.

Each his comrades sprang to his aid, eyes twinkling with humor and a fiery arrogance (we all played army, we all survived, we all became famous stacking our walls with marbles).
From above, a dove tore above the warring helmsmen, blending with the sun-lit green, dropping to earth with an almighty clap of its wings, and darted out of sight.

The helmsmen rose, but the warring lines had re-emerged and began to gather the best looking arrows and each hoped to strike first. The bird had never left, but time passed without a note (but now, it was gone even as time had passed before.

We are older now, the birds have flown through the house, gone to sleep). \)

The dove knew that its days were spent, that it had flitted with a golden bell, leaving behind an empty sound (The birds have grown old, but not much more, as there are fewer of us with thoughts to hatch out into a new stage of growth, which would bring in more winged predators).
But the dove did not know that the winged men had grown old, that their dreams had waned into simple memories.

:: 02.26.2021 ::

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