THE PRECIOUS terror is realizing
most adults are dead children
or like a day that folds itself into
a basket of reborn night. That long-
necked geese and stiff necks are
either pretending giraffes or self
consumed souls; ignoring the mirror’s
reflecting thoughts introspection
devours it’s own mouth.
Surrealism is hickey upon my heart
that bests freezer burn sunlight any
now. Kiss me you brilliant stupid
fool.
:: 08-30-2018 ::
IF feelings are a thing
as sensations of stirring
and numbness a groom
without its bride
what of feelings
that include numbness,
for each of us to decide?
To favor feelings to live
as a gift bestowed surely
defeats if not ignores
the greedy plight of
numbness —
the disregard
of life!
:: 08-26-2018 ::
MY sweet guest today
visit but just me
within the parlor of
my Spirit
And tea for two;
one for me and the other
i sip for you
the lonely sacrament
this day.
My sweet guest
gratitude.
:: 08-26-2018 ::
Life! The incarcerated occupation!
Burdened to carry flesh and sentenced
to stow divinities spark behind cave
of bone.
Oh the maintenance! My legs as columns
that support an apartment complex; the
plumbing, the water works, faded windows,
the noisy neighbors!
The furnace burns within summer
The central air within deep of winter.
And from the attic is all to see!
The tended graveyard
The psyche hospital on the corner of
Lame and Feeble.
A police department for unruly poets
and the complimentary adjacent court house.
Ah. And the orphanage for unwanted children!
Is my neighborhood
Is my incarcerated occupation
Until my landlord evicts me,
and once again to be a FREED COSMIC SOUL!
:: 08-28-2018 ::
THAT in my fever while sanity has escaped by baluster
i continue to gaze in daze across the sea of white-
capped madness
Each o-shaped mouth
Each Black-bead eye
and all the ears
all the chins
teeth
speak an infinite story of nothing but sadness.
And within the orchestral pit finely dressed musicians
they shed b-flat note tears; their mannequin powder-white
skin a color of pink’s sunsetting murmur.
Simply, the true story is off stage toward this
improbable army audience; the finely carved polychrome
citizens start to move; half-bodied and more alive
than the flesh-kingdom.
Last night. Last night i felt.
That one’s life can be as real as one’s imagination
if you sinerely wish it.
:: 08-23-2018 ::
THE curtains open to broken applause
an audience of great mystery
i cannot see their faces
nor their eyes
my Usher flees me!
And Time, the soliloquy
for Thespian lies
with each act an act of Life
and props on spot
for dramatic plots
Agh! my lines evade me!
Evade me for all i am
worthless within my House
of Theater:
The Absurd
The Humour
The Horror
The Love
of tears of joy of laughter
of sorrow of broken lines
upon my heart
upon my face
within the glass
upon the shattered floor
AND within the miles of aisles
of faceless witness
my lines flee me!
Within and without such cosmic shatter
an audience so abstract is my life
an Act (of) One.
:: 08-19-2018 ::
i am the focus
of this space ___
a mote of dust
with memory
in its place
i am the big reveal
all within and
without myself
i allow the sun to fall
and the moon to take
its place
tough and strong
i could fall for you
if not for where i’ve been
it’s everywhere
in every way
with every song
with every word
spoken to my face.
i am the one known
in every language
i am the one love
and hated by all
the human race
I AM THE THOUGHT THAT GREW
FROM ALL OF TIME AND SPACE.
:: 08-11-2018 ::
IT comes from above
above all war
And through a fire-burnt
a fire-burnt humans sow
But legions sleep from titanic struggles
encumbered they groan
emptied, bleeding, mourning in anguish
embracing they do — horror alone.
IT comes to sooth a thousand fears
to wipe away all falling tears.
Yet the wounded heart denies the royal visit;
shell shocked and gaunt the eyes remain sullen halls.
HAIL COMPASSION! that knows no bounds//higher than all clouds it comes
HAIL LOVE! That shinning King of Hearts // it comforts all.
and if courage is mine
and if wisdom is mine
then in mastery of self all shadows flee
and all evils upon their knees
they march toward oblivion.
And then and only then
am i free…
am i free?
:: 08-11-2018 ::
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E.P. Robles | Poetry 
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