Dance of Tears, Chief Nobody

I’m old Indian chief story
plastered on white scattered sheets,
Caucasian paper blowing in yesterday’s winds.

I feel white man’s presence
in my blindness−
cross over my ego my borders
urinates over my pride, my boundaries−
I cooperated with him until
death, my blindness.

I’m Blackfoot proud, mountain Chief.

I roam southern Alberta,
toenails stretch to Montana,
born on Old Man River−
prairie horse’s leftover
buffalo meat in my dreams.
Eighty-seven I lived in a cardboard shack.
My native dress lost, autistic babbling.
I pile up worthless treaties, paper burn white man.

Now 94, I prepare myself an ancient pilgrimage,
back to papoose, landscapes turned over.

I walk through this death baby steps,
no rush, no fire, nor wind, hair tangled−
earth possessions strapped to my back rawhide−
sun going down, moon going up,
witch hour moonlight.

I’m old man slow dying, Chief nobody.

An empty bottle of fire-water whiskey
lies on homespun rug,
cut excess from life,
partially smoked homemade cigar-
barely burning,
that dance of tears.

I, Penis

I, Penis,
inherit the Earth.
The meek, not so much.
meek penises are worms
crushed by pusillanimous ambitions,
ambitions too polite
and sensitive. Pardon me,
proclaims polite, pussy penis.

I, Penis,
sound barbaric yawps over the rooftops
of my trousers, the beret my master
wears concealing bald exposure.
commercials and shows offer advice,
take what you need

I trample the bathrooms, the poetry texts, history
I, Penis. I, Penis. A title imperial and full of verve,
insert my ice-cream cone tip into the metaphors
and similes and
visual erasures
erase this.

misbehaved ladies may make history,
but to the penis go the spoils.
Soli Penis Gloria, proclaim the priests
in their collars. for the glory alone
of, I Penis.

problematic, proclaim the snowflakes,
with lyrical predictability,
paradigms, binaries
all these are foreign,
to I, Penis,
I trample, and my head marches
on and on, for the glory

of I, Penis.
don’t stop me now, for there is but one opinion,
I, Penis. There is only the I,
emboldened by the fact that
I am penis.
I, Penis.

Sleep on it

If you should love me in your sleep
It would be a fruitful dream.
And I asleep shall in turn
writhe and sweat and think
who this night came for
and with whom it stayed,
and who found joy this evening
and who found pain
when these ghosts of what we lived
came visiting.

fieldwork

It’s happened
yet again.

Another educator arrested.

This time,
a high school teacher getting it on
with her 16-year-old student.

Many of the liaisons
took place in her car—

In her defense,
she was a biology teacher.

Book learning is great
but there’s just no substitute
for real world experience.

at the top of their lungs

searching for nirvana
between the thighs
of a lovely woman
in rome

i want to believe in
love, the future, a
destiny deserving
of all this pain

but i’ve choked on
my disillusionment
since i was a child

one night it’s
the bottle

the next night it’s
a butcher’s knife
thrown across
the room

there isn’t any love
in the room if someone
isn’t screaming at
the top of their lungs

i’m still searching
for nirvana

soft skin on a
sunny beach

worries swept away
with the tide

not all sins can be
washed with blood
or simply brushed
under the last dirty
rug in the house

Bring out your dead

There are some consolations in a plague year.
You’ve a polite excuse,
to duck unwelcome social invitations
to skip the banal drudgery
of self-opinionated company
of overbearing liberals
and pontificating radicals.

You’ve good reason to dodge
the intellectually occluded
and the patently deluded,
the would-be salon-keepers
and the throne-lickers and creepers,
the dipsomaniac ravers
and the posturing face-savers,
obsessive Trump-haters
and embittered second-raters,

the unregenerate hipsters,
and fatcat investors
narcissistic exhibitionists,
the wannabees and ego trips,
the drama’s failed protagonists,
all constipated scribblers and
football-obsessed dribblers,
those whom vanity disposes
and hypocrisy discloses
with each fatuous
pronouncement from their lips.

With all that said, bring out your dead.

It surely is a tonic to escape
these dull discourses.
What’s not to like
about a plague, apart
from quarantine and panic,
food shortages and corpses?

Amy’s Arms

we’re in her basement
table cluttered with cans
a drying dying
bottle of whiskey
and her awful diet Sprite

I drink in chased shots
Amy a mix of whiskey and
warm flat diet Sprite
I see the red lateral scars
on Amy’s arms

I say something
and forget it
instant amnesia
but whatever I said
it gets her yelling

her face is a twisted grimace
and it strikes me as funny
I laugh
she doesn’t see the humor
she stands up with a shriek
and curses me

I’m trying to figure out
what I just said
I can’t stop laughing
Stop laughing!
she grabs a badminton racquet

wields it like a weapon
like a samurai sword
like a lance
with my name on it
I still can’t stop laughing

she hits me in the face
with the racquet
I stop laughing
Wap!

I keep smiling and lean into her
Wap!

I want her to blacken my eyes
break my nose
knock out my teeth
Wap!

I feel the blood start
it runs over my smile
staining my teeth
I let it ruin the front of my shirt
she drops the racquet

Oh! Oh I’m sorry
I’m so sorry baby
she finds an old rag
presses it to my nose
Lean back
I’m okay

she hugs me and says
she loves me
when my nose stops bleeding
we sit back down
have another drink

so many years ago
the memory reminds me
I’m gonna die
like Amy
she died in a bathtub
in warm soapy water

she used her old friend
the razor blade
only this time she meant it
the radio was on
when they found her

it sounds stupid but I wonder
what song was playing
as her veins emptied
and the water clouded red
I hope it was something beautiful

not some dumb DJ
or obnoxious commercial
that might have messed up her soul
cheapened it
as it drifted away

I don’t go to the wake
because I can’t face her family
because if the casket is open
I might scream

I don’t go to the funeral
because I can’t face her family
because when they lower her
into the ground
I might puke

Amy, so long girl
I still can’t remember
what I said that day

***

From: Everything Dissolves

Rye Whiskey and Pork Jowl Pizza

your wife asks you to put
a bullet in her head

normally this would be
taken as a joke but
recently she has been in
immense pain and is in
no joking mood whatsoever
trust me I know
I don’t even get a smile
when I speak of Asian
hookers or dog dick
I know it’s serious then

I feel pure guilt enjoying
this ten dollar cigar
and rye whiskey
while she aches and moans
in bed well before bedtime

I’ve gotten her water
rubbed her back
and put a heating pad
on her as requested
but I still feel empty
as if I’m incapable of helping

I am making a pork
jowl cauliflower crust pizza
I put the crust on for the initial bake
I try a sample of the cut up jowl
the dog stares at me
I take out a chewed piece
for him to sample as well
he devours it and continues
licking the patio pavement
where it landed
now the fucker won’t leave
me alone and go to bed
with his ailing mother
as a dog he’s a mama’s boy
lays on her legs at night
I have to move him constantly
he also gets up out of bed
every time she rises

here lately with the disease
this has been constant
with multiple trips to the bathroom

as my cigar now burns down
I refill my glass of rye
I’ve become a fan of rye recently
a competitor to my usual bourbon

sometimes more spice is nice
my wife needs to feel
some spice right now

more than I do

as I relight this nub
I am hating myself for enjoying life

Sharks & Butterflies
John D Robinson
100 pages, Cajun Mutt Press

***

SHARKS & BUTTERFLIES

We were talking about butterflies and
how some species migrate over thousands
of miles annually, moving up to
speeds of 30mph and riding the
swirling thermals and
forceful winds.
‘The power and intelligence of
these delicate creatures can be
comparable to that of the
great white shark’ I said.
He smiled widely and nodded his
head slowly: we were stoned on
potent hash and Valium,
our eyes mere slits,
our throats dry
our minds and bodies
saturated with a heavy
peacefulness that made
discussing the beauty and
wonder of butterflies and
sharks in the same breath as
something quite natural
as then, the silent t.v.
screened pictures of the
horrific aftermath of a
suicide bombing in the beating
heart of a market somewhere
in the world.

***

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