Thursday, July 30, 2015

Based on a True Story

Cheeto Girl, they called her. And yeah, I'm not joking, they really did call her that. She stumbled around the trailer park all day, dead-eyed, eating cheetos and drooling orange drool. I think she lived with her mother, although I never saw her mother....I don't think she went to school, but that's just because I never saw any evidence of her being in school. One time she came to my door and said, “misahwah buh suh vesweh.” Vesweh? After playing charades with her for about a half hour I understood she wanted to borrow vaseline. Why? “we guh behbuh.” Bebuh? “Weh behbuh! Yaknow, behbuh.” Near as I could figure she needed vaseline to remedy bedbugs. I gave her a jar and told her to keep it. Whatever she was going to do with the stuff to combat bedbugs, I didn't want it back. Later on she came to my door with a ball point pen. I guess it was in return for the vaseline. We take care of each other in this neighborhood....you work your shit job, collect your nut check, whatever it is you do, and you can maintain your fetish or your addiction or whatever with little to no problem (mine's beer, but I digress). Folks are nice. If someone's going to the mailbox they'll be happy to grab your mail for you and everyone knows when to leave you the hell alone. They'll even give you a ball point pen for use of your vaseline. That orange cheeto drool, though? Christ. Turned my stomach. Worst thing I've experienced since my last breathalyser test.

copyright 2015 Molotov Editions

Monday, July 27, 2015

Friday, July 17, 2015

WHAT I REMEMBER (1-4)



At some point in the mid '90s one experiment or exercise I did was to write four separate poems, all of which were entitled “What I Remember”.Why, I don't know. My record keeping is a little fuzzy, but from what I can tell no one ever ran these anywhere, so for better or worse you're probably seeing them here for the first time. Here they are, all four of them:


1

decried pain and
this piece of old
doddering spoonfed
lurched up and the
doctor
removed
a snapshot vague
old carousel melody
back lifetimes when
you and the haze
washed over like ether
squalled a malcontented
rage big baby
what it took
distant strains
saw pretty girls in
ribbons
and bows
skipping and leaping
over slopes in
verdant pastures---


2

you---
devolved from being
object abject w/functioning
orifices all too easy
self-destructive
prime directive
didn't have to be
didn't have to be
picture picture
lodged in stasis
you denied
ran ignorance is
bliss is blitz
rolled to see
meat exude
(lose me)
what it took
(lose you)

3

part was left
of this me
fragmented old
doddering fool
spoonfed restrained
took the buffer
hung on the
steadfast wall
looked for reason
decried pain and
the ongo hung
his head sad
prizes my entropy


4

hell give it a
name and a property
unto itself
i
go figure
it just
in a wash in a blur
frollicking they were
in meadows
green
the pollen
hung in the air
like butter
a shrill
across the room
a name at the
top of their lungs
woolen cling
smiles
denim well worn
clung hard to
a thigh shaken
trajectory
made me waver
heat that wells
shields past barriers
like a soldier
crawling
covered in dirt
she sauntered
in my direction
stood for the word
lines and curves
inquiring eye
my balance
was the
head hung
pushed
what it took i
she the fell i
black on white on
over over ribbons
sleight of hand of
mind of
took the
like ether
i abstained
ruefully
(in the corner the doctor shuffled his cards

circa mid-late 90s/copyright 2015 Molotov Editions


THIS WEEK'S PLAYLIST:
FFS-FFS
THE HEARTBREAKERS-LAMF
BLACK SABBATH-Born Again (Yeah----that's right---it's the much-maligned Ian Gillan album---what the hell are you gonna do about it?)

Friday, July 10, 2015

ENTRY

This was "Junkyard King" Published in VOX (Albuquerque, NM) 1996. Copyright 1996 C.F. Roberts/2015 Molotov Editions



Thursday, July 2, 2015

ENTRY









THE SCOWL was published, in 1992 or '93, I think, in a little litmag called ILLITERATI. It was one of a rash of short stories I wrote shortly after I got done with my novel, HELLO, UGLY and that was a time when I was finding my footing as a writer. My prose stylings at that moment make me think of Chaim Potok on Angel Dust----and that's probably an insult to Angel Dust.
copyright 1990 C.F. Roberts/2015Molotov Editions