Robin C. Pinkman- Three Poems

                  a farewell to Scotland

So they made alan turing eat the poisoned apple 

  then made Elton John a knight after bullying

 went out of fashion  then everything unraveled all

 the way back to the original stitches  and they gave

 up all together  and there's not much left of the

 world as it was  the queen is down to her skivvies,

 out hocking the remaining jewels, with the kings  

 all dead forever  so as it turns out, in the glare of

 history, which undermines especially this overcast

 river of america, where it never seems to rain, these

 denizens of it is what it is, The Final Irrevocable

 Republic exist without too much suffering, or too

 much pleasure, without a single adam to stick out

 its tongue  so what providence will rout the holy

 armada this time? will rout the enigma this time?

  as all our heroes have been contented with tennis

 balls, old wives, and meander in neon tennis shoes

  having never known themselves:

 the undifferentiated issue of an army of

 undifferentiated impulses.

                                   Portland 2014

                    on intrinsic finality

Hot breath of the Gods on my neck like drafts

  In the grave: Chemical, Oleander Eyes,

  And Eternal Green (reflected in plate

  Glass), clinging to a rotted redwood.

  (And) who’s to say?  maybe everything is

  Telling the truth tonight, because if the moon is

  A mechanism, then socrates is

  Somehow still the wisest person anyplace.

  But no, because Man is a mechanism

   And even the wisest of Men are only

  A stranded bare bone shipwrecked shore  and

  (Tonight), even the earth seems in earnest.

  Yet who can prove some unexpected angel’s

  Not appeared to defenestrate a dubious soul?

                                        Sacramento 2012

                 

san jose business park alone

at dusk with the sky

I don’t know what i'm wishing for

  something outlandish and impossible i guess;

 because even the ocean won't take on any of my stain

  and mother birds inspect the work of father birds, and

 fuck them better for their trouble

  and ladies and girls smile with their eyes,

 and sparkle like the black hole at the center

 of everything:

 but i prefer the side door.

                              Portland 2014


Robin C. Pinkman lives and writes in Portland Oregon.