Tuesday, June 30, 2015

Robin C. Pinkman- Three Poems


 The universe in
 fact, it proves itself to be one
 in all the things (i find remiss)
 in the death of some-
 one i care about for real  my
 boy, who rolled around in the
 new harvest as i cleaned it on
 the table  and there were little
 black and white hairs in all the
 flowers  in all the harvest.

 Portland 2015

 The death of a rat is awful  
 red trickles from the nose, the
 snapped neck  black eyes gaze
 corners unto eternity

 rat poison is better (you don’t
 have to clean it up), but still an
 awful death you can hear writhing
 in the wall  it’s nothing you ever
 want to think about  but you can’t
 live with plagues, can you? you
 take a hard chug for too long
 which burns down to where
 you once imagined a soul.

 San Jose 2010

 1980 thought to herself: what
 will it be on my name day? 
 here at the end of the past  and

 everyone thinks that i just guess
 when they're little  in so many
 words  and they marched her

 along  and most everybody
 went along with it  took to it
 like their natural habitat  and

 she clutched at her arms  and
 heard them all at once  but
 nothing possibly can ever

 happen to us  because nothing
 ever does  we all line up  and
 we all know one another  and

 everybody does as they're in-
 structed  but i end up in trouble
  even though i'm only very

 small  somehow, The Years
 have no patience for me  and
 won't show me how to do it

 right  and demand that it's
 done correctly  because one
 comes after the next one

 before the next one and after
 the last one  and that's why
 This Hideous Old Machinery  

 is here in your  
 little face  to grate and take
 pleasure  and close the door

 on your obscene bleating
 so the others remain

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