Three Poems for Posterity

Hello. It’s been some time.

The site is now accessible without the “.wordpress.”

I pay dollars for this so don’t type it in the old way – then where would we be?

Chris Mars, drummer for the replacements, paints these portraits.

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Update
by Rob Rice

 

No I’m still around
Reading different books
But not writing much
I did see a red pen
Smashed up in the street
I think it had been run over
At Stop and Shop
One cashier said, “I didn’t have a headache until earlier”
To which her bagger said, “It’s so hot. I didn’t think they’d let me bag all day”
The doops and beeps were general
Each exactly one aisle quieter or louder than another
All the way down
Stripes of beeps and doops and the clicking
Of expert hands entering whatever number
Means banana here
I began to understand the hypnosis.
On the sliding automatic exit doors there was a taped paper sign
That read, “NOW HIRING SHIFTS”
It was over and over
Crushed when
Letting people leave
I wondered why it was on the internal,
Moving and not the safe for signs,
Stationary part of the door
But, truth be told,
As I watched it cycle,
I unfocused my eyes
And it seemed very natural.

 

 

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Ever 1 
by Rob Rice

 

I stake time
at the gymnasium
among the open-ended
smells and the comrades
baring gore their fins their
shoulders. I get to swish down
urinals left full of piss full of protein.
I converse in pulls, grunting I fake it, reluctant to
agree: people like us because they feel bad for us or
people don’t like us because they feel bad for
themselves.
I put in an application to have my head opened sagittally,
hoping to helplessly scream out narration while they’re uncoiling the ridges,
that canned tongue. Exasperated I admit, “Yes – we’re born – but for
the most part our organs remain in a kind of womb.”
Dine in tonight, moongoers, sing health at me until I live.
Bodies breathing well look like trips underwater, organized,
but with everything scandalously dilated on fresh air, a done flush,
forehead a mess and chest a red huff.
Pores
eating up humid rooms their sheets newly wrestled into good rope.
Cardiac nodes gulp and click like static,
crimson; our gamey crotches
where all the muscle’s bound.
Great class in the flat stretch of grass yard, drama that daring one
tree. Don’t worry, we’ll not score you to collect sap in pails.
Nomatterwhat
feast weeks end in real sorrow, us all blinded white
eyes welling up with cholesterol.

 

 

chris mars painting

 

Epitaph
by Rob Rice

 

I dig the ground
Searching for water
But find pipes

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