BOTTOM LEVEL

 

1. momanddad tell measachild to avoid ingestion of lead paint chips

which have been clinically proven to contain arsenic slash cyanide slash

strychnine slash lsd slash cocaine slash heroin slash smog slash and slash

or less than the daily maximum allowance of riboflavin

too late the heroes for i'd already done my share of munching and so

was rendered fuckupforlife

later on in the screaming, skinned knee schoolkid days other children

ran from me because i glowed in the dark like an aurora monster model

icing vegetation within a thirty foot radius o lookathim lookathim in my

superman suit but what was happening wasn't my incredible powers it

was gang abuse, was alien virus haunting, unshakeable

now older on my stage refusing to act my age this is me let it be

BRAIN IN A CAGE and proud red sign flickers for your loud, hoary

approval and i open my cranium spurting

jizz

blood

tears

braincake

to show you.

--APPLAUSE--

2. meanwhile, in comfy suburbianestledinnowhere, leaveittobeaverbradybunch

   man finds himself irritated by BORED meeting, comes home to ralph the

   cocker spaniel and the kids who are playing with their beav and wally dolls

   while watching the cabbage patch kids on tv. Wife has a rolling pin and is

using it to beat the dust out of the cat, three weeks dusty but at a later time

determined to be three weeks dead

“hi, honey, got my wall street journal and my beer in the fridge,” he smiles,

slipping the youngest son into the sock drawer,

“oh, i'm fine,” wife trills, windexing the toaster

with a wistful, faraway glance she dreams picturesque reveries of burying a

meat cleaver in his forehead and WOULDN'T IT BE NICE sing the beach boys

on environmentally-controlled radio

3. “hi,” i say to her sad eyes as godzilla dismounts from his holy ass

4 x 4 and caves my face in for talking to his girl

i bite him in his flabby alcoholic tit and run for pride, vaunted, exalted PRIDE

is a negligible frill in the face of self preservation

tearful in my fool beer it always ends this way

nursing my bruises i plot to neuter the evil bastard and his porcine slut

while they sleep

this last, i think, will be paramount, satisfying cruelty

getting them right where it hurts most---in the raison d'etre

proud o scarred saint i become of these wounds for they name me martyr,

carrier of a little-recognized state of mind

and when they fade i am full of chagrin

4. The convenience store spiel

   it's 7-11 and he wears a harley vest

   he leers and gags and spits and is boisterous and loud and

   unruly with his beer buddies and he talks about “lynyrd skynyrd”

   and “kickin' some faggot's ass” i try not to let him see me

   eyeing the comic books

   why?

   He's on his own mission

   he has own own fucking trajectory and it has nothing to do

   with that worm in the corner

   the blasphemy in his mind

   the flotsam barely thought or whispered

   the cardinal sin, fool, you bite back on every day

   in every aspect of this aberration you call a life:

   I AM.

5. It was a dream i had once

   it was a sunny, clear day and i was waist deep in a pool it was

   my duty on that day to keep an eye on the baby ducks

   inordinantly large body count that day bouyant they would

   be but every now and then one would forget how to swim and

   so then drown

   PAINFULLY

   duty then under circumstances saw me having to dredge

   up the bodies that had floated to the bottom of the pool and

   in the distortions of the dream the bodies had shriveled to the

   size of breakfast cereal marshmallows

   at the same time the abstract effect remained terrible and

   disturbed me profoundly because they retained the

   shape and color of ducklings

   about then i would hear the spectral burble of childhood

   enemies preparing to pelt me with rocks

   i would hear bomber squadrons droning in

   can you relate?

   Dream as recorded has no beginning and no formal ending

   it's just there, crucified in the time and the place of things

   suspended and that is all

6. WHAT ARE YOU DOING?

   Playing with the ants.

   WHY?

   Don't look at me that way.

   WHY ARE YOU PLAYING WITH THE ANTS?

   Because they're more fun than people and they cause me no pain

   go away you suck you see the world through a rose colored

   vantagepoint of what OUGHT to be linear limited in scope

   deluded slash oppressive slash happy slash like all the others

   but is it real i think not people like you make me long to be

   attached to a respirator (as in DEAD)

   this is fun

   it's theraputic for me and

   who are you to play judge and jury because i choose to

   play with the ants please go away

7. i was sitting in a small, family type eatery sipping

   on a cup of bad coffee gazing out the window i saw a

   murder being committed in the distance

   a man in a tank top chased a refined looking girl out

   of a beauty salon he was screaming at her smashing her

   delicate frame against a chain link fence she objected

   and struggled, her face beat red she tried to escape but

   couldn't i felt very frightened for her

   my bovine waitress poured me more bad coffee

   stared and smiled at the carnage “my husband did that

   to me last week,” she said warmly

   “why?” i asked

   “it was valentine's day, he wanted to give me a romantic

   evening”

   “i'm afraid,” i told her, “i think we should get help, i think

   he's really going to hurt her”

   the waitress eyed me like i was a blasphemer

   “why?” she asked, “it's so obvious how in LOVE they are

   and who are you to come between two LOVERS? You

   make me sick, mister, enjoy your coffee!”

   she left me there to watch

   i became very upset and before anyone came

   to help the girl, the man killed her

8. the cowboy movie spiel

   i'm the bad guy

   yeah i'm the bad guy

   i dwell alone in the corridors of stone

   and i lurk in the shadows while you live a lie

   i'm the bad guy

   i reached behind the mirror

   and fell inside a thousand hells

   but they're inside you as well

   and i want you to see them all

   so i'm the bad guy

   crowds cheer and canonize you

   when you seize the holy grail

   and i die puking from your bullet

   laughing at a private joke because

   THEY call you humane

   sunny face you head off with your lady

   while i weasel away tail between legs

   plotting your demise while she gnaws

   on your gristle

   there goes the bad guy

   you win congressional medals and

   kiss babies for those photo ops

   but only i see the shit piled up inside you

   i'm the bad guy

   quick

   lock your doors

   get the guns out of the closet

   it's the bad guy

   here comes the bad guy

9. there is a lot of life in this city

   and much death as well

   and joy

   and sorrow

   love, we ought to go find it all, you and i

   take my hand...

   no, but no,

   but no

   we don't want to suffer the consequences of

   my having your hand, do we, now?

   i may be tempted to place it in my lap

   and so something revolting!

   --APPLAUSE--

10. ??!!SHROUD?!!!!!

    pariah shrill on the thundering hilltop

    pariah tirade and scream to the stormcloud

    overwhelmed, overtaxed by the juggernaut of circumstance

    falling, imploding, live cliffsummit in a futile, fetal sprawl

    murmuring strange litanies to the roaring, ravenous brine

    i i can't no i hurt i spike the sky the sky the ocean i oh no

    blooming i no i bug crush bug crush big looming i

    you caterwaul for order, definition

    you subdivide and subjugate

    and pariah rattling i splutter and inarticulate

    how do you define the scream of the nucleus in the

    soul's midnight?

    How can i explain OH GOD the snapcrackle of my

    circuitry?

    How do i verbalize and inventory you this?

    i i i cliff crash wave foam rage shake i no swallow no

    consume no cry run hurt night i shrink

    on a cliff too high under a sky too wide

    over a sea deep and impossible

    i've become a paralyzed golem hexed by my vision

    this is not your priority list!

    This is not your subdivision sorter!

    This is not your regimented file cabinet!

    The water is war its tendrils clash in elemental incest

    beneath that,

    calm,

    a big, new sky,

    another world

    fishfishfishfishfishfishfishfishfishfishfishfishfishfishfishfishfish

11. life slows and stagnates congested

    red and yellow lights glare

    where are these modern gods, these heroes of the night?

    They lurk behind the churches and temples, torturing the

    meek and laughing

    i shall be hero-atheist, he who is unbelieving in the hero,

    the good man, the man of action

    for he is a lie and i am a witness

    i caught him urinating on me while i slept in the street

    he laughed and stood revealed

    the white knight's tinpot armor is soiled

    with the blood of thousands and your

    petty hopes and expectations are for nought

12. Hell street gasps, grabs

    suck

    poisonous

    vapors

    we children strove in the gas and machinery

13. i woke to the sounds of footsteps on my roof

    (and the prancing and pawing of each little hoof)

    closed my eyes and prayed for the sun

    'cause a horrible monster who walks like a MAN

and speaks like a CHILD

saunters through the rows of ranch houses and split

levels

whose inhabitants dream away in false security

to those in troubled slumber there are lights

in the stinking, charred tunnels and the only way out

might fail

but look to the end

look to the end

14. Suburban leaveittobeaver man's eyes redden

    as he scans the shopping list:

2 dozen eggs slash waffles slash 1 gallon of milk

slash bread slash cheese slash 2 cartons of cigarettes slash

2 sides of beef slash 1 tube of toothpaste slash vegetable oil

slash 1 hammer slash 1 ball of cotton slash 4 ingrids slash

4 deuces slash 5 aces slash 6 bottles of tylenol

and realizes he forgot to go shopping

he pulls up in his driveway beside the ambulance

two white-coated simians emerge from the two-car

garage carrying a stretcher sheet covering a

tiny, humanish shape

he wipes the sweat off his brow and asks tearful wife

who is waxing the cocker spaniel,

“what's for dinner, honey?”

--APPLAUSE--

Shockbox Press Chapbook #3 copyright 1991 C. F. Roberts/ Shockbox Press. 

rev. 11/20 Molotov Editions

BLOG ROULETTE 2018

I USED TO HAVE AN ANT FARM

Snippets of dialogue occasionally pop into my head

unasked for

one guy will make a statement, another

will respond and the duo will go

back and forth in some half-formed, half-rational

conversation

it comes to me in almost a half conscious fever

dream and just plays out it

really happens

on this one particular night eleventh hour

work night I'm sitting bored in front of my computer

waiting for the night to wrap up when the

one guy in my head declares,

“I used to have an ant farm.”

The second guy responds with a broad question,

as if he were a vaudeville straight man, asking,

“what happened?”

He never responds with anything like, “why are you telling me this?”

Or, “tell me more about your ant farm.” His reaction

is always just blunt, broad, damn nigh scripted

queries like, “what happened?”

The first guy answers back simply, “they died,”

and the conversation is over.

They all kind of go that way and I'm

left to do what I will with the result.

The work night is over and I embark on a couple of

needed days off.. In the space of those days one

friend informs me she's had what appears to be

another mini-stroke. I tell her she needs to seek medical

help, knowing in advance she probably won't

Another friend writes and tells me he's been diagnosed

with a “slight case” of liver cancer and I know from

past family experience there are no “slight cases”

of liver cancer.

Saturday marks the beginning of my work week.

My wife is off with her mother, shopping and doing

all the other things they do---her usual Saturday.

As the time comes when I usually head off to work

I haven't heard from her all day

Usually it's endless phone tag and before I head out I

call to touch base

She tells me she's sitting in the waiting room of

a 24 hour medical clinic

after suffering sudden, out-of-nowhere

pains in her arms and shoulder

and dizziness

no, she tells me, it's probably not an emergency

no, her mother concurs, we don't think it's a

heart attack

and I drive to work, thinking,

I used to have an ant farm

I used to have an ant farm

I used to have an ant farm.....

3/29/18

**********

          It hit me last night, going through my old blogs, that I haven't done a new blog since, what? Back in October? Mostly it's general derailment....this injury has slowed me down and made every aspect of my life suffer....my personal life, my mobility, my painting, my website, video production, music----you name it----my whole life has kind of hit a wall.

Now----with the ordeal almost in my rear view mirror (Praise the Lord and pass the Regranex!), I can start working toward getting shit back on track.

Still and all, it's not that I've been idle. I actually started work on a number of politically-oriented blogs (four, to be exact) that I've all but given up on. Part of it is the terminal nature of current events---you have to strike while the iron is hot or forget about it. If you run out of steam it's over. Part of it is the sad wisdom that I'm like your favorite alcoholic relative that starts ranting and raving incoherently at the Thanksgiving table---nobody likes it when I get political. Not that I can help it---I've just become THAT GUY that breaks out into vitriol and invective at the drop of a hat---and despite the fact that the last overtly political blog I did was the most highly-viewed one I ever did, I put my finger out into the wind, licking it beforehand for whatever reason they do that on all the old cartoons, and no, just, no, just no.....you don't wanna know.

        The writing and other nonsense continues, though, and the future is ripe with promise---in the coming days, you'll see the S.E. Apocalypse Krew's album, RISE, finally be released----I'm also going to be firing out new blogs----quickest arriving will be a jam on one of my favorite novels ever, Joseph Heller's overlooked SOMETHING HAPPENED.

OH---YEAH----in addition to all of this, the 20^th anniversary of “The Abbey of the Lemur” has passed unceremoniously, largely due to the injury in question....but don't expect this to remain the status quo. I'm working, as we eyeball each other, feeble reader, on the rough screenplay for a feature-length TAOTL documentary that will be the final word on our run of infamy. Don't touch that dial!

**********

Speaking of politics (at least in the broader sense of the word, which is what I prefer to deal with), working in a newsroom brings all kinds of interesting tidbits down the transom. Sure, a lot of it makes me want to retch and throw rocks, but what can I say about that? Your favorite Autistic, alcoholic relative strikes again.

But on to the tidbit in question, which did indeed make me want to retch and throw rocks. From our people in DC, more or less verbatim: A new report shows the Opioid Epidemic costs the U.S. Economy billions of dollars every year. It goes on to say that the human price of this crisis is devastating (and it's nice to see some acknowledgment, here, that there's a “human price”), but there's an economic price as well. A new report from the American Action Forum (a DC-based advocacy group that promotes center-right public policy) says nearly a million people were unemployed because of opioid addiction in 2015, and the numbers would seem to only be getting worse.

Translation: Just say no to drugs, kids----because if you do drugs, you're depriving our sainted Oligarchy of exploitable labor, and that hurts the Bottom Line.

And don't get me wrong, here----when it comes to the abuse of and/or addiction to opioids, I agree, say no. But I feel like I got a peek into the worst workings of the work machine with this faceful of an Alan Greenspan wet dream.......

Speaking of such icky business, a friend shared an article from the NEW YORKER last night (Yeah----I know----yawn!----Wearing my affiliation with NYC's Unbearables on my sleeve, there) that talked about the downside of what's now referred to as “The Gig Economy”. It was actually a pretty good read-----much of it centered around ride-share giant Lyft and their promotion involving a driver who gives birth on the job. I'm just gonna link to the article, because the writer, Jia Tolentino, says it better than I will.

https://www.newyorker.com/culture/jia-tolentino/the-gig-economy-celebrates-working-yourself-to-death?mbid=nl_170323_Daily&CNDID=49221241&spMailingID=10681265&spUserID=MTg0OTkxNzg0Nzg3S0&spJobID=1121869960&spReportId=MTEyMTg2OTk2MAS2

       Again, this whole notion of a “Gig Economy” is kind of a Neoliberal spank bank feature----picture an entire workforce of at-will contractors gigging away in some variety of part-time servitude, without benefits. Welcome to the future.

I got into a minor flap with one cat, who, as far as I can tell, is getting fat off sales commissions, when I bluntly wrote, “it all needs to come down.” He responded, “what the hell does that even mean?”

If you're one of the lucky few who are making out like a bandit in the Gig Economy, I haven't got time to explain it to you. Sorry---diplomacy was never my strong suit.

'Kay----getting off my proletarian high horse for now.

**********

It's nice to see the angry public response to the whole Cambridge Analytica/Facebook scandal-----yeah, sorry—--I had about a month's jump on it from the rest of you because Lee Camp and Jimmy Dore broke it all the way back then. (Yeah—--I know----”RUSSIA BOT!!!!”---Suck my nuts, ya goddamn lemming) Forbes apparently wrote about it back in November, favorably. Think about that.

Anyway, thanks for finally getting pissed over something you should get pissed about, as opposed to all the silly hype over Russian Troll farms----nothing's sadder than watching sincere Hashtag Resistance-types working themselves into a frenzy while the neoliberals move the goalposts all over the field with shifting charges designed to foment a new cold war, fueled largely by abject fear and wishful thinking. Y'all have made conspiracy theories mainstream and acceptable. Kudos.

A lot of folks are (understandably) dealing Facebook out. I'm still here....I guess the dividing line between you and me is that, from 9/11, Bush and the Patriot Act on out, I always assumed my shit was being looked at anyway. Why this is new or shocking to any of you is a mystery to me.

So, until Big Brother or his surgical equivalent come knocking on my door (and it'd have to be a real slow day for me to be of interest), you all know where to find me.

Yeah. Tolja nobody likes it when I do this.

THIS WEEK'S PLAYLIST:

FETISH/CANDYSHROUD-Demo

ANDI SEXGANG-Achilles in the Eurozone

ALICE COOPER-Love it to Death

L7-Slap Happy

PUG'S LITERARY GUNPLAY PRIMER

One dash of history with hysteria

mix well with psychology (amateur)

monopoly, dichotomy and control

add lust piping hot with 20g confusion

and 1 tsp paprika hold the relish.

Spread with KY jelly.

Heat 'til burnt.

Serve with irony and hallucination.

Hi to the kids for me.

Sing songs by the piano 'til hoarse

and throw holy water.

I drink in broad daylight

avoid the news (printed AND filmed)

and rarely write past a second draft anymore.

The cats are doing fine.

The women all become the same person

after awhile.

Bluejays in the window yesterday.

Wish you were here.

Kiss this.

Regards.

Published in THE CROWBAIT REVIEW ('95/'96 or thereabouts)

THIS WEEK'S PLAYLIST:

GENESIS-The Lamb Lies Down on Broadway

PETER GABRIEL-Passion

SWA-Sex Doctor

SWA-XCIII

THE CRITIC SAYS...

I used to read this one a lot at open mics. It primarily consists of actual critiques leveled at actual writers, usually by actual magazine editors....I was both a writer and an editor at the time, so I was on both sides of the fence.

FECAL ODE

The Critic says Confessional Poetry is the earmark of an immature voice!

The Critic says one must avid preaching to the choir!

The Critic pauses, scratches his balls and neglects to make a note of it!

The Critic says your genre parody is unintentional!

The Critic says you might hammer it through his workshop for $300 per weekend!

The Critic says you are suffering from Post-Beat Angst---take two New Yorkers and call him in the morning!

The Critic lists his priorities!

The Critic begs to differ!

The Critic declines to attend the Open Mics as they are notoriously lowbrow and common!

The Critic shows up fashionably late to extravagant functions!

The Critic insists upon a window seat!

The Critic maintains that the lesser poets write about handjobs in pickup trucks because only the lesser poets would give or receive handjobs in pickup trucks!

The Critic says it is crucial to remove all personal experience and pain from one's erotica so that he might retain his erection!

The Critic quickly adds that he is single and attractive!

The Critic produces excrement that is, in fact, transparent, textureless and virtually devoid of odor!

Copyright 1992(?) C.F. Roberts/2015 Molotov Editions

THIS WEEK'S PLAYLIST:

MOTORHEAD-All the Aces

MOTORHEAD-1916

HAWKWIND-Warrior at the Edge of Time

YOU CAN PICK YOUR FRIENDS, YOU CAN PICK YOUR NOSE....

“Repeat after me,” said Billy Weldon. “AAACK!”

“Repeat after me,” I SAID. “AAACK!”

“No! No! You're nor supposed to say, 'repeat after me'....”

Those childhood games confused me.

(They still do.)

Billy Weldon was my best friend in those days.

We climbed trees, caught frogs, built secret forts and sang dirty songs together.

When he was mad at his mother he'd call her “Bean Bag”.

She was none too amused but I always laughed. That joke was pretty funny.

His Dad was a weird, white trash neo-Nazi type

who never wore a shirt and always yelled at me to get out of his yard. I didn't understand that—I didn't

understand a lot of things.

Being friends with Billy was an odd experience.

One minute you'd be laughing and joking, the next he'd turn around and slam a rock into your face.

The subtle nuances of kid life were a a bit of a head-scratcher to me. You had your enemies and they were your enemies. You had your friends and they were also your enemies. Some concepts were never easy to grasp.

Once I was in a fist fight with Billy and he pounded my face in while his grandmother stood on his back porch cheering him on. I wasn't sure why she wasn't cheering me on, since it was obvious to me that I was the Good Guy.

My family moved away and Billy and I fell out of touch.

We met again in our early teens and hung out for an afternoon. It wasn't bad, but it wasn't quite the same.

He played football. I drew pictures.

He liked John Denver. I liked Alice Cooper.

Some differences are just irreconcilable, I guess.

Billy died when we were both in our early twenties;

He was in the Army and he crashed his jeep on base. Very bad form.

I was a dishwasher at the time.

I didn't go to the funeral—I had to work that night, but there wasn't really anything left

that I could relate to.

“Repeat after me. AAACK!” He said.

“Repeat after me. AAACK!” I said.

Copyright 1996 C.F. Roberts, 2015 Molotov Editions

1957

1957 (Titicut Blues)

raymond you’ve been rotting away in bridgewater state hospital since

before i was born

i’m not sure if they’re force feeding you mush in a monkey cell or

if you’re finally taking the dirt nap out in the yard

apologies for not keeping up

not sure if anyone thanked you for mom and dad’s wedding present

singing castrati in the park trumps waterford crystal any day and

you made the news from whitman to niagra, top of the world, ma

growing up in your shadow was a bitch

afraid of loud noises, not playing well with others

liking monster movies better than football

my guesstimated palmistry led to singing castrati

expectations i caught hints of, expectations i couldn’t comprehend

a monkey cell with my name on it

hearing, “he’ll never have a normal life,”

hearing, “we have to keep him away from his younger brother,”

hearing, “keep him away from the neighborhood kids,”

hearing, “I had a cousin who was just like you.”

your shadow like a millstone, a suffocating blanket

because biology is destiny

because ignorance is morality

because some people can’t make the fine distinction

between high functioning autism and violent, homicidal pedophilia

raymond my childhood is locked up with you in bridgewater state hospital

thanks

and on the off chance that you’re still above ground

don’t bother writing back

Published in BARKING SYCAMORES 2014https://barkingsycamores.wordpress.com/

The first thing I tell people when they ask about 1957 is that it was the year my parents got married.

http://www.boston.com/news/local/massachusetts/articles/2007/07/29/50_years_ago_a_crime_that_spawned_center/

By Kerry Keene, Globe Correspondent  |  July 29, 2007

It was as horrific a crime as the city of Brockton has witnessed.
Fifty years ago last week, on July 26, 1957, two young brothers from Stoughton were reported missing after a summer outing at D.W. Field Park in Brockton. The nude, burned bodies of John, 12, and Paul Logan, 11, were found nearby the following day.
Their murder, and what followed, left its mark not only on the family and friends of the boys, but also on the region. Outrage over the crime helped create what is today the Massachusetts Treatment Center for the Sexually Dangerous in Bridgewater. And the state's sex offender laws were overhauled in the wake of events that day.
The Logan brothers had taken a bus from neighboring Stoughton to one of the swimming ponds at Brockton's 800-acre park. When they failed to return home that afternoon, a search began. All Brockton police and firefighters were called into duty to comb the area.
It was learned that the boys had been swimming that day at the park's Ellis Brett Pond. Initially it was feared that they had drowned, and the pond was drained. Other ponds were dragged as part of the search effort.
The worst fears were realized the following morning when Firefighter Robert Gould went to investigate smoke coming from a gully near Thirty Acre Pond.
There he found the charred bodies, bound together by rope. The boys had been stabbed repeatedly in the chest and abdomen.
Investigators found a house key, apparently dropped inadvertently, under the bodies.
Police took that key to the home of Raymond Ohlson, 21, of Brockton.
Ohlson was known to the police. He had been released seven weeks earlier from the Concord Reformatory, where he had been incarcerated since the age of 15 for a sex crime that had occurred in 1951 at the same park -- barely 100 yards from where the Logan brothers were found.
The key fit Ohlson's door.
Under police questioning, he confessed to the murders. Taken to the crime scene, he described in detail how he lured the boys away from the pond, then assaulted and killed them.
The crime outraged area residents, who pressed lawmakers to revise the law so that sex offenders would not be freed to repeat their crimes.
Ohlson had originally been sentenced in 1951 to 10 years, but a court decision in 1955 reduced his sentence to six.
"That particular crime had a tremendous impact," said Charles Correia, 72, of Taunton, who spent three decades with the state Department of Correction.
Correia recalled how reaction to the boys' murders fed support for a law authorizing the treatment center, which opened less than two years later.
It was specifically targeted, he said, at repeat sex offenders.
"The state started to focus much more on treatment," he said, "and added many mental health clinicians in an attempt to rehabilitate repeat offenders."
A state-issued booklet titled, "A Chronology of the Correctional Facility at Bridgewater" by Kimberly M. Urban, published in 1987, noted that the murders of the Logan brothers led to many revisions in the sex-offender laws, and supported funding for the Treatment Center.
The center today houses 559 patients and inmates, and its population in recent years has hovered around that number.
Nearly all of its residents have been convicted of rape, molestation, or other sexual assaults.
The center -- part of the larger Bridgewater Correctional Complex, which includes Bridgewater State Hospital and the Old Colony Correctional Center -- is seen as an important element in the state's correctional alternatives.
Ironically, Ohlson never entered the facility his crime created.
He was determined by the courts to be incompetent to stand trial for the murders, and was committed to Bridgewater State Hospital.
Ohlson spent the remainder of his life there, largely uneventfully, until his death in 2003.
"He was the most docile inmate. He almost seemed like he enjoyed it there at the state hospital," Correia said. "He blended in. He never created problems or got into any trouble.
"Some of these types of sex criminals almost know deep down that it's dangerous for them to be on the street."
Asked if it were within the realm of possibility that Ohlson actually planted the house key under the bodies so that he would get caught, Correia responded, "As crazy as that sounds, that wouldn't shock me."

© Copyright 2007 Globe Newspaper Company.

WRITTEN VS. SPOKEN

                                                    Check out those Dreads!!!!!

RAINBOW LAND

PROLOGUE:
i was riding past this pentecostal church
the sign out front read,
"no act of love is ever wasted"


the hare krishna food is great but
goes through me like drano
from main meadow we high
tail it across the road
splitting the toilet roll for our
respective relief ventures i
do my business and stand
on the slope waiting for her to
finish and rejoin me
time unwinds and sun sets as i
wait and worry grows this is
black bear country i know she
can't have went more than a
hundred feet in but it's dark
my nerves run riot as i
imagine her being bear food or at
least having tripped over a rock
unconscious or worse
several brothers join me in
a search of the immediate woods
people here are kind as a
matter of course they greet and
part with hails of "lovin' you!"
which carries no more weight or
substance than hello or
goodbye still the sentiment is
nice flashlights scouring
thick brush screaming for her my
description her name blonde
thirty pink bandana is she
your girlfriend? they ask i
have no right to call her that
but i love her that's what i
tell them we hunt and yell her name
finally they tell me check
back at camp or go to information
to pull a search party together so
i slog back to camp heart in
mouth and there she is citronella
candles lit sitting and yakking
with some joker who isn't
me i'm hysterical and weeping tell
her i was afraid she might be
dead she says she crossed the
road and waited a half hour
before giving up and returning to
camp the guy who isn't me intones
pacific comfort, "everyone's safe
in rainbow land," nice thought
i need to run back to the
entrance give dude's flashlight back
i'm gone maybe fifteen minutes upon
my arrival back she and the guy who
isn't me have split the scene leaving
candles lit and i sit and wait
she doesn't come back fellow
campers around me go about
their business like ants and i
sit alone knowing she saw how
wretched i was where did she
go hours pass it might be
midnight or later before i
make my way down the dark trail
to the madass drum circle a
throng of hellbent drummers
dancers fire jugglers participants
and all is a berserk throbbing
human unit is she here i can't
make her or anyone out the vibe is
incredible tribal transformative and
except for the knot in my gut i'm
sure i'd appreciate it more mind
racing i wander back to camp cry
some more swill what's left of the
absinthe throw the empty bottle at a
tree attempt and fail to sleep
citronella stalks melt away, burn
in grass a volunteer fireman takes
the initiative stomps out a little
inferno and admonishes me from outside
the tent "you need to watch your candles,
brotha," he says blaming me for
wanting to keep her path lit i feel
a desire to break my brother's face
but lack the energy or focus night
fades into morning my guts twist in
me it's rainbow land and heart
smashed on ground i
am not safe

7/05-8/05

BACK 2 BABYLON

She's asleep in the back of the van, has been for
hours--
Appalachia's long behind us and
Louisville is one more congested nightmare of a city
She's not missing anything good
Her Big City Phobia may outdo mine
white knuckles on the wheel and I think,
keep it together, stay sane
You can fall apart later
No sleep 'til Babylon

It's been a long, hard overnight blast
through the dark expanse of Kentucky
I caught an hour nap after Bowling Green
She stayed asleep
curled up in the back
That's fine
I've got road hypnosis and bad baggage
but I think, keep it together
Stay sane
Because we need each other to get through this
I can lose my mind later
I probably will
The road peels forth toward Babylon
Every part of me hurts
So I concern myself with the next gas stop
the next meal
the next piss
We need each other's help
home
Keep the conversation reasonably light
Try not to break to pieces when you look at her
You can fall apart later
All that matters is getting back
Back to Babylon

All things considered the trip was okay
I learned to like the bugs
I almost learned to like the cops
there were pluses peppered throughout
In the dark a gutterpunk sniped about "snobby
hippies"
"What's so snobby about hippies?" Asked someone,
taking
the bait
"They don't love me unconditionally," came the reply
Funny joke--the truth hurts sometimes
And nothing keeps the pipes regular like five
straight
days of Vegan food;
The mad cascade, babyshit yellow
There's nothing quite like a therapist supervised
cuddle puddle to make you acutely aware
of how worthless and repulsive you really are
and goddammit, doling out fifty bucks
so that certain special someone can have her pot
in spite of the fact that she's not fucking you
is the mark of a true gentleman
      or a true schmuck
I'll let you know when I figure it out
Sign at trail's top read,
"Leave the Alcohol in Babylon where it belongs"
I kept that sign in mind when I
bartered crystals for a six-pack
Yeah, I know
I'm a bad hippie

As we cross into Missouri
we get NPR on the radio
We learn London has been bombed
She's worried
She has family there
I'm relieved because it gives me
something to think about
    besides us
    besides her

The Delta yawns out before us
and in the future I see
responsibility
bullshit
renewable Patriot Acts
and weapons of mass stupidity
Keep it together
Stay sane
I'm always comfortable in the middle of a fight
I can fall apart later
I'm chopping off my dreads
and going back to Babylon

9/05
rev. 10/05

Copyright 2005 C.F. Roberts/2015 Molotov Editions

 

Two different poems written around the same time that both tell the same story...the difference being that the second one was specifically written for live readings. I was writing, a blog or two ago, about discerning the difference between a poem that's just “written” versus a poem designed specifically to be read to an audience. Back in the '90s I didn't really have that kind of discernment and I'd just read any damn thing live.....probably much to the chagrin of a lot of people.

Which isn't to say I didn't TRY “Rainbow Land” out once or twice at the mic, but it has no real verbal flow to it----it's more a poem you're supposed to see on a page, whereas “Babylon” has more of a conversational rhythm to it and it comes off the tongue a lot more nicely.....there's an obvious intent here to engage a listener.

I'll do an open mic now and again but on the whole I don't read live that much anymore....I tend to prefer the solitary act of sitting down and writing something to the whole live performance thing. Back in the early 90's in Nashua people sometimes referred to me as a “performance poet” because I used to project and scream and yell and do all kinds of strum and drang....people would come up to me afterwards and say, “I never knew someone could do that with poetry!” Well, sure you can----and if anyone is willing to cross the street for it that's a nice thing.

Once the whole Slam idiom took hold across the country a lot of that changed....there was more of an emphasis on “getting a poem off the page”, something I was never especially good at. Mostly at the end of the day for me it's still all about the writing. But if there's one thing I understood from watching it all is that some things “read” better in live performance than others.

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Ul40UktSijw

Here's a clip of me performing “Back 2 Babylon” (a somewhat cleaned-up version for family friendly hours) on TV at a fundraiser back in 2006. I had become friendly with a new employee working there at the time----she was a fellow writer and we just clicked. A year later I would go on to marry her. You can probably tell I was showing off. Not a great reading but hopefully entertaining.

I heard this story once about a guitarist who put a “NO SMOKING” sign across his guitar and when asked why, he said, “because I can't smoke.” I always kind of thought I should do something similar---maybe wear a decal that said, “No Slamming” because I can't slam....

Enjoy, or something.

ABOUT YOUR CESSPOOL

i fell into your rabbit hole
to the tune of innocuous beckoning,
smiling ghosts
now caught in the tube and
choking in the confines

bad little rabbit hole
sordid point of light
angels, devils, children,
dancing on the head of a pin

and now i need to tell you i have no use for nostalgia

i love you and i hate you
as young hormones only dictate
i go on half answers, half stories, usually less

yet i swear i killed these demons years ago
DIY, cold turkey when a pin prick
dropped me back down for a visit
baleful stares and old favors
your rabbit hole, your garbage dump
the bottomless pit,
the best years of your lives

i love you and i hate you
i recognize you but i don't know you
nothing much has never felt
quite this bad
nothing worthwhile  has never marked me
quite this deep

angels, devils, children,
dancing like pinheads
here's your auld lang syne and a
bullet in my brain

pulled down your rabbit hole, your toilet bowl
and i need to reiterate
i have no use for nostalgia


                                

copyright 2010, C.F. Roberts/Molotov Editions

Here, Now

First post: So far we've been pretty bereft of snow here in Northwest Arkansas (he says, knocking on the head he claims is wood)-----this is a sequence of little poems I wrote back in 2010, when we had a lot of snow and ice.


1. slow day at the mailbox.
bank telling me i have no money.
social security telling me i have no future.

2. proletarian doldrums.
three flights of stairs, dirty shoes.
11pm, the black cat gripes.

3. retro-70s playback.
gene simmons telling me i have nothing to lose.
johnny rotten telling me i have no future.

4. restless cat on camera case,
busy day snowed in.

5. winter wonderland pissing snow
we want scorpions and rattlers.

6. train howls its lonesome in the holler;
dogs of dogtown a mocking choir

7. caffeine pinball brain, foot dancing
the wife hammers out revisions

8. pastels and mod podge on coffee table
empty canvas, bad ideas

9. novelty songs peel forth
it's halloween again; it's always halloween