Tuesday, August 5, 2014

Robin C. Pinkman- Two Poems


 Either Way to the water

 I don't care if this poem ever is
 observed by anyone (but myself)
 or if anyone ever started a poem
 like this, or if it's any good, or
 about anything (because i am
 observant)  i want free of people
 and the world  i don't want to
 think about what's original  and
 i don't need to admire anymore
 as i see how things are at the
 moment  as the water drains
 which i drew for no reason  but
 only to listen to it trickle, and
 sparkle, and for the warmth, the
 fluid heat of it  so i don’t care if
 ever this poem is observed but
 by myself (when i'm in my right
 mind)  the rest of the time i write
 ridiculous poems to myself  which
 litter the street under the stale
 glow of the traffic light, alongside
 the rest of the morning garbage, the
 adds for whores which the homeless
 scoop up with beer cans and bottles
 and whatever else might amount to
 something  so they can keep moving,
 like everything moves  because
 everyone's homeless  it's true  Man
 has no place to rest its head  most
 people just have a building to sleep
 inside of  because the sidewalk is hard
 and uncomfortable  it's true  and they
 wake you up at 5AM so you can scrape
 yourself up off the sidewalk like a
 smashed snail  and feel all the cold  all
 the raw fog of the morning  and insect
 eyes  and the bottom of the sea  and all
 as Man sets up for another sordid day
 of vegetable business  with vegetable
 mouths and eyes  and i wander toward
 home horrified, and worried, and in a
 perfect state of agitation  to see the  
 shadow of concentric rings like a light
 to make things clear  as the vortex circles
 above the common drain  and i laugh at
 myself and the swarm of flies outside in
 the stairwell  and how it didn’t occur to
 me sooner.
                                          


 more on environmentalism

 I could give a shit about landfills,
 and even think they may be beautiful
 and even remember looking forward
 to them as a child, and finding them
 interesting  there was nature all over
 the place (with birds and sun), and it
 seemed like an honest end for things
  much nicer than the places things
 came from  with the smell of life and
 truth filling my lungs and my nostrils,
 and urchin children left alone with
 nothing but cigarettes to smoke and
 broken cassettes to play with  to tell
 you the truth, it was a heaven  a heaven
 compared to the prefabricated row we
 all inhabited in one way or another  we
 all inherited in one way or another  with
 the intent of an antiseptic ensconcment
 which lingers like a sack of rotten
 potatoes until the sun burns out.

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