6 feet 8 inches & still lost

thomas wolfe
dead at 38

smoked 60
cigarettes
& drank 20 cups
of coffee
per day

so tall
he wrote
while
standing

using
the top
of his
refrigerator
as a
writing
surface

he was
8 inches taller
than the depth
of a grave

& that towering
lonely frame
told us
about being
lost

about not being
able to go
home anymore

& i think of him
whenever the
fridge door
squeaks open

& i eat
cold meat
off a bone
in bed
alone
at 2:15 am

cigarette smoke
rising but
w/nowhere to go

poetry doesn't begin w/a lump in the throat but rather w/a hand grenade...

that old softy robert frost said that
on his stone he wanted written:
"i had a lover's quarrel with the world"

i don't desire a stone but if i did i'd want:
"he had pistol whipping fist fights
w/this godless son-of-a-bitchin' world"

why's everyone living like they're driving in the slow lane w/their hazard lights on

yesterday i got a blow out
going 80 mph

after the car quit swerving
i pulled onto the shoulder

the rubber was shredded
the lugs nuts were stuck

big rigs thundered by
as i crouched struggling
w/the tire iron

i got the tire off
the old compact car shifting
on the rusty jack
& finally tightened the 'donut'
the tiny spare that comes
w/the car

it warns not to go over
30 mph w/it on

i got back in
& punched the gas
& hit 70

then i noticed in the rearview
that a hearse, of all things
was behind me

its headlights shining on a sunny
warm day in mid-october

not a funeral procession
just a death car following

but i felt no alarm
b/c that shit is always tailing you
whether you spot it or not

so i sped up
laughing at this
cosmic coincidence

75 mph
80 mph
etc...

the needle pinned
finally

while balanced upon
three bald tires
& one sketchy spare

cold egg rolls & lukewarm black coffee

i eat a cold egg roll
& sip lukewarm black coffee

staring out the window
at the leaves

i prefer it when
trees stand dying
& flowers wither

when nature quits
being ambitious

how does one fail
to become modest
in october?

but still i see them
greedy as ever
as the leaves fall

i wish money'd turn
brown & crumble too

if only for a short while

NICOTINE SCRIBBLINGS FROM A HAMMOCK IN THE VOID

This is my eighth book of poems. This time it's published by Good Japan Press:

Volume 4 comes from one of our favorite pessimists and all-around swell guy, Rob Plath.

His chapbook, Nicotine Scribblings from a Hammock in the Void, is now available for purchase.

Price - $ 7.00 (includes shipping within continental US) - If you buy 2 copies the cost is $12.00 - Buy 5 and it's a $27.00.

Make payments to agboerum@yahoo.com via PayPal. If you do not have PayPal access, please write us at GoodJapanPress@gmail.com for more information.

All orders will ship September 15th and arrive within 3 business days.

****I will have some copies as well. If you want a signed one. Let me know. As you know I am selling these. That's how it works. So if you're interested please email me here about payment method. I have Paypal or you can send a check or concealed cash. $7 includes shipping (add $1 more for outside USA). I will sign each book and draw my trademark skull & crossbones for you .


Thanks,

Rob

Cuffed To Your Own Muscle

In a way, the blood pressure cuff
is worse than handcuffs.

To know that you are prisoner
to a part within.

One with empty chambers
but that can explode anytime,

or send the blood so forcefully
through ribbon thin corridors

that they finally rupture,

leaving you like a fucking
dying geranium in a planter.

7 characters in non-pursuit of an entrance

i saw my birth
it had war-paint beneath
its leery eyes
& was sucking on the pin
of a grenade
at the lip of the womb

i saw my angel
its cigarette fallen from
its sleepy fingers
napping in a hammock
heavy lids facing up
at sweet cloudland

i saw my love
it was heroin-thin
its ribs visible
like the frets
on the warped neck
of some abandoned
pawn shop guitar

i saw my loneliness
it was grinning
ear to goddamn ear
sipping bum wine
& toasting itself
against an alley wall

i saw my faith
it was collapsed
in a shallow ditch
w/a rotten fruit skull
wearing a halo
of flies

i saw my ambition
it was in a morgue drawer
punching the keys
of the poetry machine
w/stiff bloodless digits

i saw my future
it was wearing a duster
made from a body bag
a toe tag
piercing its septum
like a bull
sipping whiskey on
a bar stool