Rob Plath

1 out of 6

bukowski said
he punched out
one great poem in
every six

those are pretty
good odds

that means you gotta
keep banging them out
shitty or not to
get to that 1 in the 6

to get 2 you gotta
hammer out a dozen
& so on...

the great poem
sits there waiting
like the one bullet
during a game of
russian roulette

you gotta keep
spinning the barrel
& pulling the trigger
risk feeling empty clicking
the nothingness of
vacant chambers

you gotta keep banging
on the poetry machine
to finally release one shell
to get the explosion
to smell the smoke
to feel the kick in yr wrist

to get that bullet-poem
that pierces walls, car doors
plate glass
& enters the skull
& lodges itself
in the brain

a reply to kind words

damn you, he said
how do you
write so
consistently well?

& i accepted the kind words
like a shooter
of tequila
on the house

& then replied, i smell my own dust
whenever i lift the lid
of the old laptop

armchair of soul

my real
education
came
from
an
armchair
in
a
public
library

i
don't
believe
in
the
vertical
posture
of
the
ambitious

burnt teapot soul

the old tea kettle
whistle's broken
a bouquet of steam
is blowing forth
from its spout
i flip the stove dial
to off
grab the handle
& see my face in the
unpolished metal
a warped mug shot
three-day stubble
on my jaw
the dark scoops
under my eyes
the pale convict's
complexion
the wide frenzied
eyes
i lift the kettle
off the fading red coil
& pour the water
for tea
grinning
knowing full well
that these kind of
mirrors don't
give back nothing
but the truth

	Rob Plath
Home Archives Guidelines Contests Letter Links Tips The important words are underlined by Maurice Oliver Did I ever tell you about the time oil from/ a leaky canister seeped into my thoughts/ then expressed its dissatisfaction with my/ sexual life. Nonesuch Dreams and Wills by Ray Succre Her discovery of him will also be gradual/ [X=X+1]; she does not startle anymore./ She has been alive [cavity] before. The Mob by Doug Draime He: How we gonna do it? She: Don’t ask me, you’re the one with the gun He: Can’t use the gun. She: Why? He: Never bought any bullets... Spudadelic by Jeff Crouch visual art centered around one dietary staple Sometimes Suicidal by Aimee DeLong Sometimes a suicidal person fixes her hair. Sometimes she looks in the mirror to smooth it. Sometimes she goes four days without washing it. Last Night at Southport by Justin Hyde tell her i'm a butterfly with sixteen wings beating in succinct anarchy. Categorical Imperatives by Maurice Oliver Try to imagine a small room where the only/ furniture is a TV. The TV has a hundred/ channels and two sets of memories. Beerwigs by George Anderson 1. A canoe full of moose meat 2. Beerwigs 3. The Great Vodka Massacre 4. The Bootlegger & the Professor 5. Puke-O-Gram Visual Art by Claudio Parentela Poverty by Papa Osmubal I saw a handful of dead cockroaches/ on the floor this morning./ You must have filled the house/ with your endless litany of dammits’ and ‘bullshits’/ while chasing them with last week’s paper/ you borrowed next door for the purpose. dance a line by Sophia Kidd i get stuck thinkin' of words/ and meanings of you and of him/ the smell of leaf/ on dirt Contagion necessaries: sensorial numb by Kenneth Mulvey reach into pocket/ for a light/ to find I pissed/ myself again Pamela in the Spring by James Dilworth I can't talk in the human way, I tried to learn without success. I could only watch her day after day, as the seasons began to change and the world grew colder. The lost art of visualization by Andy Riverbed Now that I think about it;/ I’ve realized I don’t like poetry/ and I don’t like literature; I/ hate movies and music is nauseating;/ my job is a boring mind-/ numb. Dream by Cecelia Chapman A short movie	1 out of 6 bukowski said he punched out one great poem in every six those are pretty good odds that means you gotta keep banging them out shitty or not to get to that 1 in the 6 to get 2 you gotta hammer out a dozen & so on... the great poem sits there waiting like the one bullet during a game of russian roulette you gotta keep spinning the barrel & pulling the trigger risk feeling empty clicking the nothingness of vacant chambers you gotta keep banging on the poetry machine to finally release one shell to get the explosion to smell the smoke to feel the kick in yr wrist to get that bullet-poem that pierces walls, car doors plate glass & enters the skull & lodges itself in the brain a reply to kind words damn you, he said how do you write so consistently well? & i accepted the kind words like a shooter of tequila on the house & then replied, i smell my own dust whenever i lift the lid of the old laptop armchair of soul my real education came from an armchair in a public library a barstool in a small pub or reclined in smoking a cigarette a bent primitve position or completely reclined a horizontal man but one w/fucking soul i don't believe in the vertical posture of the ambitious the so-called evolved upright walker show me a "stand-up guy" & i'll show you a cunt who knows nothing of life burnt teapot soul the old tea kettle whistle's broken a bouquet of steam is blowing forth from its spout i flip the stove dial to off grab the handle & see my face in the unpolished metal a warped mug shot three-day stubble on my jaw the dark scoops under my eyes the pale convict's complexion the wide frenzied eyes i lift the kettle off the fading red coil & pour the water for tea grinning knowing full well that these kind of mirrors don't give back nothing but the truth
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1 out of 6

a reply to kind words

armchair of soul

burnt teapot soul