Poetry

Prologue

In a burst of creative energy and self publishing around 1982 in Munich, Bobby published three small books of poetry that also included a few short stories. The names of the books are My Stories, Poor Boy, and A Body of Work.

It is not known whether these three books of poetry were written in a short period of time or in fact were an accumulation of poems from a few years preceding the self-publishing. I suspect the latter. A review of each of the three books provides insights that he had thematic approaches to the gathering of the poems.

In his poetry he was experimenting with various forms of alliteration which also appears in other poems in his collected works. My first reaction was that it was a literary gimmick and though clever, could be overdone. However, after revisiting these poems at a later time, I have found some new understanding and interest in the form.

His alliteration efforts are formidable and it is necessary to focus on the content or get caught up in the cleverness of the alliteration and forget the content. Maybe it was his intent to challenge and confuse the reader in the interest of causing them to focus their attention. One can only speculate. There are also some poems that repetitively use homonyms. He appeared to be experimenting with both poetic devices.

Searching through the three self- published books of poetry, one can see a wide variety of themes and thoughts, and the craft evolving in Bobby’s poems. He observed much about the world and diligently explored ideas within or just beyond his grasp, which all poets struggle to do. It is by pondering the unknown and exploring evolving ideas that one sometimes finds bits of wisdom and truth. Part of the challenge of the poet is to involve the reader by not explaining and rationalizing every thought. In other poems he plays poetic games with alliteration and some dark subjects revealing his exploration of his feelings. It is the burden of each reader to enjoy the moment of the poem for what it does to stir the emotions and tease the intellect. This first poem in this book is s Lesson from the Earth. I have had a few occasions to do eulogies, the first being Bobby’s. I have always used this poem and tried to make some appropriate remarks relating to the life of the person, based on this poem. It is a powerful poem in what it says and as with many poignant poems---what it does not say.

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Lessons From the Earth

The tree on the other side
Of the house-
In the storm
It died last night
But it’s too big to bury now
We’ll wait some years
And watch it
Rot into the earth.
It may teach us something.

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Battery

Mix me how you like
I will be your batter
Your 400 degree dream
Beat me
Whip me
Batter me
I will be your cream
But careful
I can make a hit too
I will come to bat
I can batter
Just as you
I will bat to base
I have energy
I have ammunition
I will battery
I will shoot you down
I am a battery

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Lace and Lies

Laced with lies
I am laced with lies
And love
I lie and lie
And lace my love
In lies
It ties
It ties you tight
My lacing lies
Will cry your eyes
This night
I will lace and lie
You will lie and die
I will love you
With my lashing
Lace and lies
You will lie
Tied up in love
And die

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Rest of Your Life

If you came home blind this afternoon
I would lead you through the world
The rest of your life.
The rest of your life
You would rest
I would walk you across the streets
I would carve your meat at dinner
I would write letters to your mother
And tell you how beautiful the sea was
When we travel there—
I would pour the wine
And trim your hair
And play beautiful music all day
I would dress you everyday
In a rainbow of colors
You would rest
The rest of your life
If you came home blind this afternoon.

This poem was written possibly in the early 1980’s. It was always a particular favorite because of how it expresses deep feelings of love in dramatic language. Inspired by this poem, the theme and the story of the poem was captured in a song, “If You Became Blind This Very Day.” The song was obviously co-written by Bobby.

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Landmarks

Land marks your love
and your hate and the
spot where you were born.
It's written in your
passport. You are validated.
You cannot be erased.
Land marks your feet
waiting for a subway in
New York. Climbing up a
mountain in the Alps.
Running on a beach in
Mexico, Land marks.
Land mark's your first step
and your last. The moment
you laid eyes on, the time
you said goodbye.
You cannot deny it.
Land marks it.
Land marks your journey.
Up and down,
Rich and poor.
Young and old.
You will mark the land.
And the land will mark you too.

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Paper Pain

This pain I felt.
I remember
It began on my twenty-fourth birthday.
I wrote it down on a sheet of paper
and hid it in the wallet someone
offered as a gift.
The wallet was stolen just some months later.
Then, the police called,
wanting to know who I was
why I was in their country.
I didn't know the country belonged to anyone.
I never felt that a country belonged to me.
Only the wallet belonged to me,
and it was returned after some days and lies.
Without money,
only my name and the paper with pain.
I wasn't surprised.
People don't steal pain.

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Sunday Dinner

You've ruined my Sunday dinner. I cooked all afternoon
in this heat, in this kitchen, in this mood. And now
you've ruined my Sunday dinner. Just because you took
too many pills last night, with some idea, with this idea
I can't put into words. In my family. How could I ever
think this would ever happen to my family. What's happening
to my family? What's happened to my Sunday dinner? You've
ruined it, that's what's happened. You've ruined my Sunday
dinner. You've ruined my God damn Sunday dinner. By the
way, would you like to make a trip to Los Angeles next
winter?

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Waves

It must have been after two o'clock and everybody was drunk so we brought the patio furniture into the kitchen and some idiot threw the volleyball through the window. Oh, well, waves. It always comes in waves. Wednesday in. Thursday out. Friday in. Saturday it snowed. Sunday too, but we still waved. Those were high waves on Sunday. Knocked us right off our feet. Left too. Some couldn't get up. They drowned. Well, we were all sort of drowning, hating those righteous bastards we had to cross the street with everyday. Is it no wonder we wallowed in the waves.

It must have been after four o'clock. And how hot. Some faces were on fire. Others, already dead. Some playing with the white stuff on the floor. Sticky stuff. Who let it out? Everybody was out. It was after four in the morning. Everybody was all laid out riding the waves. At six o'clock, I went around tapping all the dead bodies on the shoulder. Get up. It's Monday. We've got to go to work. We've got to smell the armpits of the righteous bastards. Get up. Get out. No more drowning in tears. The tide's gone out. I'll call you when it's in. And everyone sort of, sort of washed away.

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Imagination

I was lying on white sand on an island. It was a silent and secret island. It was my island. It was my nation and I felt as though I were the only person in my nation. It was my nation. But suddenly, a man appeared, a stranger. A stranger invading my nation. I didn’t know where he came from. He said nothing, but he looked at me as though he wanted to kill me. I thought he would kill me.

I ran. I fled from one side of the island to the other, from one side of my nation to the other. But always, everywhere, the stranger appeared with that same look on his face. Perhaps it was only my imagination. It was all my imagination. But I ran into the ocean.

I swam. I swam as far as I could, away from the island, away from the stranger, away from my nation. And suddenly, I felt I could move no longer, no further. And I felt safe.

My limbs were exhausted. I was without energy. My head sank under the surface. I swallowed water. I pulled myself up to the surface but only for a moment. Then, I sank down again. It went on for a while until I felt I had no strength left in my body and sank down for the last time. And as I sank deeper and deeper into the ocean, I thought, this wasn't my nation. This was my notion. The stranger wanted to kill me and he succeeded. This was my imagination.

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Body and Breakfast

this is my body
breaking fast
broken in bone
embedded in glass
bed into board
molded en masse
paying to bed
and to board
at last
paid to be bored
to be nailed
to a board
in bed
to be passed
at last
this is my breakfast
breaking fast
I've broken that fast
at last
breaking my fist
fisting too fast
breakfast
has finally passed
body and breakfast
have broken
too fast
I've broken my body
I’ve broken my fast
I've broken my bed
and board
at last

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The Die

He rolls the dice
The die
Die roller
Rolls and dies
And shouts
He nearly cries
He's lost
And nearly dies
Die roller nearly died
But tries again
He dies again
He wins
He dies again
And wins
A new roll
A winning role
His eyes are rolling high
He wants another die
Die roller wants to
Win again the die
Die across the board
Bone against the board
He's waiting and
He's bored
Waiting for the die
Rolling out a cry
I want to die
I want to die
He shakes and shoots
The die
Rolls out his final cry
The players say goodbye
On the board he lies
Lost to death he died
Die roller died and dies

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Cell Wall

It was Thursday in the afternoon.
I woke hearing a voice,
(pronouncing my name),
wanting my key to the cellar.
Someone wanted to lock me out
of the cellar. Someone wanted
to lock doors and make me
a prisoner.
I wondered if I deserved it.
What was my crime?
Did I need a sentence?
Must I be locked out of the cellar,
and face all,
all ways,
always?
The key is in my jacket,
I yelled and feigned guilt.
And it was over.
I felt much better and
fell back into sleep
with a smile on my lips.
I dreamed on Thursday in the afternoon.
I dreamed I was in the cellar.

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Over and Over and Over

over the hills
over those hilly hills
on a train somewhere
overland
I packed up in passengers
in poor man’s clothes
a boy on a horse in a meadow
over there
gone
over the waves
over those waving waves
on a ship somewhere
overseas
I pulled down the darkness
and thought of jumping
into your lap
some stranger slapped
me asleep
had a strange dream
it screamed
overboard
over my head
over my un-haloed head
I need our ceilings
over my head
I need your fingers
running over my body
not running away
please don’t run away
not over my body
knot over my dead body

all over town
all over here and all over town
downtown
I searched for someone to
over dose with
but no one would overdo it
no one wanted to die

over night
all over the night
I over lied
and liked
and tricked and tried
and wanted to start
all over again
but I couldn’t then
it was all over again
I was all over again

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Ways

wondering
wandering
in the dark wood
on an endless path
finding my way blind and afraid
I hear voices
not words
I wonder
where
who
what
ahead or behind
friend or enemy
aid or obstruction
I grow more frightened as
I wander
on the endless path
to know where
and
to no where

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Good Friends

I like good friends,
The kind who trick every night.
They know I like to sleep late
And call in the afternoon
To tell about last night's trick.
I like their phone call tricks.
I like that friend who goes to the park
everyday to feed the birds.
They have to eat too.
I like that friend who likes fine wine
And brings back bottles from France.
I'm back from France via le vin,
They claim. I'm back from France. A shame.
I like that friend in black: and white
Who crosses bridges late at night,
Dangerous bridges.
But they always come across,
I like that friend with cats who loves them.
And that other without who loves them.
I like that friend who threatens to die,
But doesn't know why.
Just playing a game.
I like those friends who lie
As they speak about yesterday's
Love without name. And then they cry.
It's always the same.
I like that friend who knows how to cry.
I like that friend whose name is me
And my and I.
And I wonder which kind that I may be
And why and why.
And I like that friend who's color blind
But isn't blind of memories.
I like their mysteries.
I like their my stories.

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Brutal

As he walked on the street, he noticed people were staring at him, but he didn't care. He was glad to get out of the building, away from the police. They didn't even offer to drive him to the hospital. He had to walk.

The people in the hospital were just as careless. In white, they walked in corridors past injured people, some bleeding. But they seemed to notice no one. They're all ghosts, he said to himself as he waited for his name to be called. He hated it there.

One of the ghosts called his name. He stood at a counter in front of her. She didn't ask what happened. She didn’t ask if he was in pain. She asked him how he would pay for the care he needed.

"I have insurance," he said softly.
“What did you say?" the ghost asked.
"I have insurance," he shouted.

Then came the forms and the questions and the required identification and a brief medical background and the name of a personal physician; and finally, a doctor, another ghost. He didn't give his name. He spoke and looked at him coolly, like most doctors, the boy thought. He was almost sorry he'd come for help. But he was helpless. He needed help.

Back to the street. People still stared at him as though he'd done something wrong. He only reminded them of something they didn't want to know about. But then there was no blood, only stitches covered by bandages, and a pain in his chest where the stranger had hit him. Surely the pain could be seen in his face. Before returning home, he stopped in a store to buy vodka. The man behind the counter recognized him and looked at him curiously. He was silent as he watched the boy bend over to pick up a bottle from a shelf. Then he rushed over to help him. He was obviously in pain.

"'What happened?" he asked quickly.
"I was robbed by a man and he hit me several times."
"'Was he black?" he asked quickly.
The boy looked at him curiously, "No, he wasn't," he said.
The man looked surprised, "'Was he Puerto Rican?"
"No, he wasn't." He was becoming disturbed.

The man looked disappointed. "'Well, you shouldn't have fought back. If you fight back, you’re sure to get brutally killed by two black guys over near the park. He tried to get away from them by pushing one of them to the ground. But it was the other guy who had the gun. He shot him in the back." He was silent a moment. Didn't you read it in the paper this morning?" The boy shook his head.

“Well, you shouldn't have fought back," he repeated.
I didn't fight back. I gave him everything he wanted. But it wasn't enough."
"Oh." He nodded his head and looked a bit satisfied. The boy felt peculiar. "Then you're talking about one of those real nice characters," he said. "Did he look and talk funny?"
"It wasn't funny." He was becoming angry. "I just realized I don't have any money with me. And I'd better go." He began to turn.
"Wait a minute. Take it anyway." He put the bottle in a bag and handed it to the boy. "You're always in here. Next time you can pay me," he said and smiled.
The boy took the bag and thanked him.
"You be more careful too," he said from behind the counter. "It's brutal, I tell you. It's brutal the way people are treated in this city."
The boy agreed as he stepped on to the sidewalk. Further down the street, his head ached. Perhaps I will sleep tonight, he thought.

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She Is He Was

They went shopping. They drew pictures of each other. They took pictures of each other. They read books. He liked poems and letters; sometimes in quiet restaurants where beautiful women sat on their fur coats, and sometimes in their four-room flats. She called it her home.

It was a quiet flat on a quiet street. He kept the windows closed and only looked out in the night or when it rained. He liked to look at the moon and listen to the rain. He didn't call it his home. It was her home, not his. He couldn't think of any place he'd call home. Sometimes, he thought of living by the sea.

They listened to music and slept. He had brown hair. She liked the color blue. He collected post cards with pictures of writers on them. She collected many things.

There was a phone with a number which he'd never used. He never wished to. He wished he had a dog to walk with. He wouldn't be so lonely. She left for eight hours each day, five days each week, four weeks each month. Four times eleven. There was a one month holiday and she said she liked holidays. But then, she said many things.

There was an old woman who lived next door. They talked about her sometimes. She did most of the talking. He did most of the drinking. She did most of the thinking. He did most of the dreaming. She would light candles in the night and he would blow then out. He wasn't afraid of the dark.

He liked the music they listened to. It made him feel as though he were in space. He was. And then he turned out the lights and got into bed, again, he felt as though he were in space. Sometimes he smoked cigarettes. She didn't like to smoke. But she liked him.

His name is not important now. But she is.
He used to have a dream. It was by the sea. The waves were beating. The moon was overhead. She was lying on the beach, whispering words to him. He moved closer to hear. She was telling him she loved him.

And sometimes when he wasn't dreaming, he wondered if he would be able to still draw a picture of her when he became much older. He wondered if he would remember her, and what she said, and what she read, and what she liked and didn't like, and what she loved and what she loved very much. But his dream never came true. He never saw her by the sea. He never heard those words. And he never had to remember her because be didn't grow much older.

... They lived together for a few years. She had a child and then he died. He was my father.

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Bye Love

from this
23rd street studio
we looked down on:
the empty bottles of wine,
the dancer's tights,
the old mattress with broken springs,
the letters which were never mailed.
all the things
we lovers throw out
one tine or another
after one love or another
you said:
"Well, if we went on saving
everything, that's all we'd
have, just things."
you didn't notice
my snicker
and I didn't notice
you'd left the room until
I opened ay eyes again
and saw your note
lying under my foot:
“I've gone to buy some eggs.
Feel like breaking something?
bye love”

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Wordless

When I bite my nails
It’s a sign
I’ve got some idea
Inside my head
But I don’t know how
To put it into words
So I keep my mouth
Busy biting
And my fingers
Busy being bitten
It’s so frustrating
If only I could
Seal my mouth
And tie my hands
Behind my back
But then all the words
Would be wordless
And I might die
Of an overdose of ideas

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To The Trash Picker

This is written to the lonely girl who was picking through a trash can on first avenue one winter afternoon and found my name and address on an envelope and decided to write me long letters to tell me about your father, who had just died, and your boyfriend, who was tired of screwing you, and your cat that had disappeared out your living room window one day, and asking me if I would be interested in a father-lover-masochistic relationship.

Go pick your fucking trash somewhere else.

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On the News of the Death of the Cat: My First Words

I thought.
I shivered in bed, in the night
Now, I’ve seen the dead box.
Now I know
I have something to do with my hands,
In the backyard, under the birch,
The birch is my favorite tree.
So alone.
I have something to do with my eyes
But, perhaps I won’t cry very much
The birch is a beautiful tree.
The wind has blown the leaves away.
This must be the place,
I’m sure.
I’ll move the earth digging the hole.
Doesn’t it always move-- the Earth?
Poor earth.
Poor cat.
I have something to do with my voice.
I’ll whisper goodbye,
By the birch.
I’ll say goodbye.
Goodbye

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The Lost Child

The child.
scene
The child on the meadow.
scene.
The child crossing the greening meadow.
scene
The child singing to secret sounds.
Moving across the distant meadow.
scene
The child whom the spirits worship,
singing songs,
dancing over the rising meadow.
scene
The child of the rainbow spirits,
breathing wind,
love and song,
following the endless meadow.
scene
The child for whom the people prayed,
lost to spirits,
raining gifts,
chanting songs,
far off into the phantom meadow.
scene
The child no longer seen.

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The Actor

I saw you sitting on
a chair in that corridor
as though you were
sitting in the audience
of a concert hall.
But there was no music
and no dancing and no song
not a sound,
except for your applause.
As you applauded,
others looked at you,
as though you were mad
or crazy, insane, unbalanced;
oh, one of those words.
And as you smiled cheerfully
at each distorted face,
I realized,
you were not in the audience.
You were on the stage.
That’s why I applauded.

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Living in a Male Order House

ordered to a house
ordered from a mail-order house
mailed to a house
mailed to a male order house
delivered by a man
a mail-order house mailman
waiting in a box
a male order house mailbox
received by a man
in a male order house
mailed and maled to a male order house
ordered in the house
by the factor of the house
mauled by the male
malefactor of the house
mailed and maled and mauled
in a male order house
back in a male order house
just living in a male order house

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How Sweet

Saw
a
man
today
give
a
little
girl
some
candy.
How
sweet
I
thought,
the
man,
the girl,
and
the
candy.

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Jill

She was walking quickly
with a bag hung over her shoulder.
Someone from behind
yelled, “Lydia.” But she
didn’t stop or turn
around. I guessed her name
wasn’t Lydia. I took a guess
and called her Jill. Because?
I missed Jill.

I watched her from
above. Six floors above.
the street. I watched her
only for moments as she
crossed one street,
on to the next.
There were buses that made
too much noise, and too many cars,
and Jill
with a bag hung over her shoulder,
walking quickly, soon gone.
Jill is gone. I wonder
what was in the bag.

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This is Just

This is not a confession
And this is not American
poetry since 1945.
(Why should a war clock time?)
This is not a product
of the American dream
or the sexual revolution.
(That dream and revolution
were transparent.)
This is not a breakthrough
in some category that hasn’t
been broken through yet.
And this won’t make amends
with your lover.
Go look somewhere else
for justification.
This is not justification.
This is just.
Yes, this is just.
So, just let this be.

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Prologue

This self published book, Poor Boy, along with My Stories and A Body of Work, were published in Munich. Bobby had been to Europe before living in Munich full tine for years. When he was sixteen we were able to put him into an international program that sent groups of young girls and young boys who had to be at least sixteen years of age, to a country of their choice. He chose France, having taken French language classes in high school. The program was called the Experiment in International Living and was sponsored by the Reader’s Digest.

He spent several weeks in Putney Vermont with a group of young people going to France and they were given an opportunity to be immersed in the French language. He was placed with a French family for several weeks, each participant was assigned alone to a family. His older brother Richard, had completed exactly the same program a year earlier and also had gone to France. Bobby had a good working knowledge of French. Many years later he acquired a proficiency in German. He had an interest in languages and appeared to have a proficiency for learning them.

Among the many books I found in his apartment when gather his writings on that fateful day in 1992, was a self teaching book on Italian. Most of the pages had annotations which indicated he had completed studying the very thick and demanding book. He meticulously did all of the exercises. I still have that book and when circumstances permit, I continue studying Italian with Bobby’s Italian book. His annotations across the pages of the book, make the book feel very comfortable, like any book that is dog eared and well read and now comfortable and soft to the touch.

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Petty Thief

I took a breath of fresh air
last night
and a couple this morning.
I’d better be careful.
They may start calling me a thief.

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Number 122

Peter Petersen (1897 – 1951)
Black Line and Bird (1934)
Oil on canvas
Gift of Mrs. Sidney Best

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New York

Somewhere on
Second Avenue
Somebody jumped out
Some window and
Somebody whispered
Some body’s bleeding in the
Street and
Someone said
So what

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Poor Boy

poor boy poor
sitting on a bench
dreaming as waters
steaming to a mist
letters
oh poor boy
letters insist
come back home
please come please
poor boy loneliness
is my disease

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Sweet Death

Walking to awake.
I walked into a wake.
Waiting on a friend.
Wanting to awake.
I waited on a friend at a wake.
Which friend?
I wondered.
Who is dead?
Who is living?
Who is awake?
Who is sleeping?
Someone shall have a sweet awakening
In another world.
In the waking world.
But I had to walk in line.
And I had to wait on line.
And I always hated walking and waiting lines.
All ways.
One walks.
One waits.
One wakes.
Oh when will I finally wake?

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Saturday Morning: Early

Come watch us
touch each other.
We do not forbid it.
We do not know laws.
Come hear us talk
to rabbits and the
apple tree behind Lilly’s
house. They are living too.
We do not know crazy.

Come listen to the stream
That must die beneath the street.
Somehow a sad music,
but our favorite music.
Come see our mothers
marching from their doors;
all doors, all orders and excuses.

But we are not the worms
inside their nests.
We are guiltless.
We can fly away.

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Inside Outside

Inside it is dark and quiet. There are many rooms inside, and there’s a cat which sleeps. Inside there is no television, no telephone, no newspapers. There’s a box which I never opened and don’t know what’s inside. It’s a red box and sometimes the cat sleeps on top of it. Inside, the windows are always closed and the curtains drawn, so I don’t know what happens outside.

Outside there’s a mailbox where the mail is stored, but there’s rarely any mail. Only sometimes I receive a letter from someone who I thought I would never know again. The letters don’t mean very much. Only, I may be traveling Soon, and how are you these days, they ask, I never answer, I just put the letters outside with the rest of the trash.

It’s very warm inside, especially in winter when temperatures drop outside, I stay inside most winters feeding the cat which hates to go outside in the snow. Sometimes I sing to the room and light a fire in the fireplace. It makes me warm. And I like it inside.

Once I thought that only beds and streets and wars had sides. I was wrong.

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Melanie and Jonathan

Melanie sits on the sofa just looking around the room and then Jonathan walks in the door and you can see that he’s in a rage. He moves toward her. She moves back. He has some letters in his hand and throws them at her. “What do you know about these?” he screams. “What do you know about these?” She screams too. “Nothing, nothing.” You can see that she’s frightened. Then he turns away from her, looks out the window and freezes. Suddenly, an opening in the floor opens and out comes a person dressed in a long blue robe and a white mask over its face. It’s difficult to tell if it’s a man or a woman by the way it moves, but it’s supposed to be a messenger from God, (very strange), and it stands next to Melanie and but its hand on her shoulder pretending to be her alter ego. But she pushes it away. Then it bends over and whispers something in her ear. There is a shocking look on her face. She stands up quickly and slaps her alter ego across the face. The alter ego begins to cry and walks back to the opening in the floor, descends, and is gone. Jonathan unfreezes, and turns around. He stares at Melanie a moment, then says, I’ll be back. And I hope you have an answer for me.” Then, he marches out the door like a soldier. She lights a cigarette and smiles sarcastically. The curtain falls, and we all clap. It’s the end of the first act…

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Visit To A Gallery

You were once my love.
This is number 87.
You were once my love.

This is man’s unanswered question.
Contemplating 87.
Are you still my love?

This is the teacher gone distraught
Thinking over the question.
Ignoring number 87.
Can you be my love?

This is the child no one thought
Could leave the teacher so distraught.
Choosing answers, never question,
Forgetting number 87.
Will you be my love?

These are the eyes which broke a heart.
The child who lived without a thought
Of teacher left in deep distraught.
Teasing others with the question.
What is there at 87?
Who shall be my love?

This is the Earth after the rot.
These are the eyes which hate the heart.
The child stares in selfish thought.
Teacher frightened, dies distraught,
Pondering over the question.
Doom condemns in 87.
No one left to love.

Back to Top :

The Fucker

He didn’t come.
I thought he would come
But he didn’t come.
I said three o’clock.
He said OK.
He said OK and he didn’t come.
The Fucker
I knew it all along.
Then, why did you come?
I wanted to come.
But he didn’t come.
Why don’t you go?
He still may come.
But you just said
You knew he wouldn’t come.
And you came.
And you knew he wouldn’t come
But you won’t go.
You don’t know very much
Do you?
He still may come.
The Fucker
Besides, where shall I go?
You could go some place where
He may come.
He won’t come.
Wherever I go, he won’t come.
I’m not going
And I’m not coming.
I’ll stay right here.
I’ll let him know
I can’t be fucked.
The Fucker

Back to Top :

Man Again

I am a man again
Rose from a manhole
That was a hole man
I am a whole man

I am a man again
I’ve got a mania
Not necromania
I want to live

I am a man again
I am high mannered
And manicured
I am romance

I am a man again
I wear a manteau
It has a hood man
It’s mandatory

I am a man again
I’ve manifested
A manifesto
I am a kind

I am a man again
I made it man
I am a mannequin
I am man made
I am a man again
I made it man
I am a mannequin
I am man made

Back to Top :

The Sleepwalker

He fell into the dark into a dream
Down into a dream. Down dream.
Where am I falling? He asked the dark.
His conscious answered.
It streamed. He drowned into a stream.
He fell into a dream into a stream.
Down dream. Down stream. Downstream

The journey began at midnight. The hour struck.
Somewhere in the city, third floor, bedroom.
The breeze blew. The bed bent.
He rose, opened the door, and walked.
Down the hallway? Up the hallway?
Which way? He asked the walls. Down, they answered.
Down past portraits. He stared down past portraits.
Down dream. Down stream. Downstream. Down stares.
At mother. How dear.
At father. How old.
At grandfather. How dead.
At brother. How missing.
How sad. How late. How come. How long.
Not long. Another door opened.

Down stairs. He stepped down steps downstairs.
Steep steps.
He stared downstairs.
Three flights. Flying flights.
He dreamed and streamed and stared and stepped down stairs.
Three doors. Closed doors.
Coursing corners. He steered through corners.
He dreamed and streamed and stared and stepped and steered.
Down stairs.
Three windows. Open windows.
Opening where? He asked the night.
The stars answered.
Millions of stars.
Millions of meters away. A way.
The stars should come down this night.
He dreamed and streamed and stared
And stepped and steered and starred
Down stairs.
Down dream.
Down stream.
Down stares.
Down steps.
Down steers.
Down stars.
Down stairs.
Another door opened.
But the journey had ended.

Back to Top :

Body Prison

I am filled with sand and
marbles. They occupy my
space and make
me heavy. I am filled
with Earth. It smothers me,
how sad. I cannot leave
my body when my lover
calls me names.
I cannot make a speech to
Jesus Christ and cats.
Yes, they can hear.
I cannot visit Jupiter,
nor jump from moon to moon.
Yes, they are near.
I cannot dream,
when barred inside this cell.
One tiny cell.
Every millions cells.
Every millions prisoners.

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Idea

I had an idea on the street.
It was tall and slim,
Brown and blue,
Solitary, silent,
Beautiful.
Oh, what a good idea.

It turned left then right,
Then straight ahead.
It gazed at windows, people,
The sky.
It slowed down
And sped up.
Oh, what a fantastic idea.
But then it stopped at a door.
It rang the bell
And waited a moment.
The door opened
It went in and was gone.
I shrugged and turned away.
Guess it wasn’t such a good idea
After all.

Back to Top :

Here and There

here and there lies
deaths and untruths
shallow stories
deep memories
one on top
another
quarrels number
knock at doors
and break the elevator
you and i deny
and never answer
closed eyes breathing
dreaming and retreating
there is far away
here was yesterday

Back to Top :

Nadir–Zenith

I will not last forever.

I am an alley cat.
I carry razor blades
in my pocket and am at
home in a room full of
broken glass.
I am a seesaw.
I say I see.
I say I saw
But I see saw nothing.

I carry letters
in my pocket too.
I wrote them myself.
One is addressed to me,
the others, to ghosts.
Well, I am the eighties.
But, I am a dinosaur too.

I will not last forever

Back to Top :

Who Am I

I am your alter ego
I am your friend
I am my poems
And I am a poor boy
I was born in New York*
I live in Munich**
And I am a poor boy***

Robert Nannariello

* Oct. 22, 1957
** since 1981
*** who has ever become rich writing poems?


Note: Bobby used this half script and half printing technique of writing. It was a writing style he consistently uses in his writing, journals, correspondence, etc.

Back to Top :

Your Head

I borrowed your head
Last night. Hope you don’t mind.
I’ll return it in a few days.
Just want to tell it a few things.
Maybe kick it down the stairs.
Perhaps stick my tongue in its mouth.
Don’t worry. I’ll comb its hair.
I want to look it straight
in the eyes. Yes, straight,
and ask a few questions. Honestly.
Just a few things I want to know.
I hope it tells the truth.
Otherwise, I’ll scream
in its ears. Yes, scream.
Or I’ll slap it right across
Its face. Of course,
Don’t expect it returned in
the same condition you leant it.
You know how borrowers are.
But I can assure you of interest.
Your head will have a very interesting
few days.

Back to Top :

Prologue

We received a phone call from Bobby from Munich. He would call the family rather regularly, usually on a Sunday morning, and he would also send letters and post cards. He was quick to remind family members if a letter he sent did not get reciprocation with a responding letter. There would be the superficial threat that he would stop writing if he didn’t get a response, which was soon forgotten because he liked to write letters. He was very prolific in his letter writing and his commitment to keep a journal.

During this particular phone call, Bobby was excited about the fact that he would be traveling to Paris from Munich to appear at a café in Paris to participate in a poetry reading. The excitement resonated in his voice. He received his invitation because of the three self published books of poetry and a few selected short stories, and some attention they got in local poetry circles in Munich.

Later he sent a poster that listed his participation and the date of the poetry reading, which was February 8th and probably was 1983.Later he wrote and called and explained that poetry reading was in the Village Voice Café in Paris and the readings went well. The readings were from his book A Body of Work. This book also contains several short stories.

Later many of his short stories were found scattered among his writings, written at different times and are collected in another section of this book. These short stories appear in this section in order to maintain the integrity of this book as he published it.

Poster from poetry reading at the Village Voice in Paris in February, probably in 1983

Back to Top :

Mine

mine
miner
not major
minor
the man
I made
my minor
not mine
the man
who played
a major
see major
minor
not mined
not mineral
not cerebral
not mind
not mirror’d
no not
memorable
not mine
minority
majority

not mine
not minus
no not
minuscule
not mined
no major
in a
minor school
not mind
never mind
never never
mine.

Back to Top :

The Fifty-First State

it was a take-off
on a body
anybody
some body
somebody took off
on a body
the body lay in state
the take-off
took off late
the state was still
unknown
the take-off took
alone
alone into the night
into the air
the body stayed in state
alone in there
the take-off was delighted
with the flight
and rate
and body was inflated
just right
and nearly rare
the take-off
took off here
the body traveled
to another state
I hear
the body was in a state
unknown
the fifty-first state
alone
no one lives in there
non one could come near
but the take-off
on the body
came quite near
tell me
where is that state
where

Back to Top :

Newborn

I new born
I knew birth
from
the earth
inside my mother’s
tomb
that sad and empty
room
I came to know
born and birth
they called me
a newborn
though I wasn’t
new
I knew
where I’d been before
I’d known a life before
my body unborn
born before
knew birth days before
my body flown before
but they called me
a newborn
an unknown newborn
newly named
no more
an unknown
known before
an unknown
known once more

Back to Top :

Halo

hello
halo
over my head
halo over my head
howling my prayer
in bed
hallow be my name
instead
hollow by my heart
in bed
hallo
halo
over my head
so low over my head
so low unholy
wise
so holey I may
rise
so wholly into
paradise
hello
halo
over my head
haloing over my head
on hollow wing
I fly
to heights and wholly
high
good-bye halo
good-bye

Back to Top :

The Gamester

the gamut
of games
allows me
to gamble
my gender
I gang up
my gags
in gangways
as gender
pretender
gangway
I shout
I garishly
guard a garage
but no one puts up
this garbage
is just a mirage
this gamester
is just a mirage
a game of my age
a mirage

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Bed and Behavior

I have a bed
So I behave
And suffer from
Behavior
I behave in bed
Behavior without favor
Obeying what is said
Replaying what is played
I bay and bayonet
Until I make
A bet
Instead
I hurry up
My head
Instead
I think I’ll
Make the bed
Instead
I’ll cover up
And spread
Instead
And ten I’ll
Be a bed
Instead
A bed without
Behavior
A being
In my favor

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Neutral Noun

I am a noun of nature
I am a natural noun
Naturally renown
Natural as no one
I am neutral
In my nature
I am a neutral noun
By nature
Quite unknown
By stature
Quite alone
I am called the
Neutral wonder
And the missing noun
I am studied
Head to toe
My origin unknown
I am a puzzling
Neutral noun
Nonetheless renown
So I am stand alone
No one loves a
Neutral noun
None that I have known
So I stand alone
I am a lonely noun

Back to Top :

The Business of the Body

the business of the body
is a very busy business
is a very busy body
bargaining for love
the body of the business
always comes in black
and stays in the black
the best of the business
happens in the back
and up in the bed
the body is so busy
it’s never in the red
the business of the body
is the banging in the bed
and the banking in the head
the bargain of the body
is the body is unwed
takes a good business head
the business is the buying
and what’s bought is the work
the work of the body
is the body of work
working what it earns
the business is the business
of what the body returns
and the body returns
the body return

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The Dissector

I’ve learned the profession
of dissection
I look at life in sections
reducing people to particles
specks for my inspection
I pull the pieces quite apart
of people I explore
I push the pieces far apart
examine every pore
because I am professor
professor and dissector
I sector pieces into pairs
defector and infector
defectors are the peaceful part
reflecting in defection
infectors are the peace-less part
injecting their infection
so I am professor
of the science of dissection
reducing people to particles
people of rejection

Back to Top :

News Of Never

the news of never
is never here
and never there
it never happens
never
it’s something like
the weather
partly this
partly that
never whole
never quite
together

the news of never
should be
and certainly it
could be
and naturally it
would be
if there were
ever never
but there is
never never
there is just
forever

Back to Top :

I Liner

I liner of my eyes
My eyes are lined
Eyewitness of my life
My eyes are blind
I line out of the past
A very fine line
My lineage has cast
My very fine mind
And I cannot erase
A very fine line
I’m told from time to time
I shall be very fine
I only have to learn
To draw a straight line
I only must discern
Another kind line
My lineage has blessed me
With succession
No depression
Depression isn’t fine
My linear sound
Sounds of suppression
Earmarked by oppression
So I have a mind
Minding such a fine line
So I’m very fine
I’m a very fine line
A line that will continue
Never end
A line that I will draw
Direct again a line that is a
Product of my pen
I will not be imprisoned
In a pen I will be revenged
I was never blind
It was just my mind
Following a fine line
Now I see the end
Every line has an end
I liner of my end

Back to Top :

The Stud

this is the deed
this is the stud
the deed of the stud
lies in bed
the stud has studied
the bed
this is the stud
declaring the deed
the stud has studied
the head
so said
this is the stud
declaring his deed
through empty rooms
and crowed tombs
regretting all the dead
so sad
the stud has studied
every head
and heart without a head
now he longs to know
which come better
in his bed
perhaps when he is dead

this is the stud
in dying need
lying in his bed
this is the deed
dead indeed
this is the stud dead
this is the stud
with heart without a head
this is the world
of endless night
and the phantom steed
this is the world
of the phantom knight
dead without a deed
this was the stud indeed
now the knight in need
this is the knight
who needs the night
upon the phantom steed
riding through the
empty tombs
roaming through the
crowded rooms
counting every heart
he is dead without a deed
so said
he is the knight in need
so sad

Back to Top :

A Sense of Nothing

You only come
so that later you can say,
"I have to leave."
And you leave.
You leave me alone and empty.
Please, don't come anymore.
The next time you leave,
leave me be.
In the morning,
when the only body in bed
is mine,
I feel a chill moving
up my spine,
reminding me it's still mine.
Still.
But mine.
And I know I still have
something to hold in my band.
I meet you in the evening.
You complain of problems
and ailments.
And then you say,
"I love you,"
I wonder if you're still complaining.
As our eyes met on the street,
there was an explosion of sound.
My head jerked forward.
My eyes closed quickly.
And I thought there was
some symbolism in the moment,
until I turned around.
It was only the trash men
picking up the trash.
I felt a sudden sense of nothing.

It was a long journey.
And when it was finished,
you said,
"I'm glad I made it with you,"
But you made nothing with me.
You will never make anything with me.
You will only make journeys.

As the door closed,
I pulled down the blinds
and felt one sense less.
It was all senseless
with you.
Senseless.
Nothing less.
The children have gone home,
the day is not far behind,
and you will follow
the hands of the clock,
never my hands,
only the hands of the clock.
So I sit in my room
and sit on my hands,
and wonder.
I wish I were a clock.

Through a glass of sorts,
I see a face
I don't recognize.
Strange.
I think I used to know
those eyes, those lips, those ears,
that nose, the texture of the skin.
What sense that face had.
How sensitive it looked.
How sensible it was.
What nonsense now.
Such nonsense that face is now.

When I knocked the glass
to the floor, you said,
"Don't worry about it."
When I over-cooked
the dinner, you said,
"Don't worry about it."
When I forgot to
pick up the newspaper, you said,
"Don't worry about it."
When I said I felt
lonely and poor, you said,
nothing,

Love has:
many nationalities,
many languages,
many traditions,
one nature.
I've seen your passport.
I just don't know your nature.
I think I'll
sweep the floor

with love and remove it from
the dictionary.

Now that you're gone,
the air is clear.

Now that you're gone,
here is really here.
I can see the walls
and feel the floor beneath my feet.
I can smell the smoke and taste
the wine. I can hear the music.
It's all mine.
I know this is mine.
How senseless of me wanting more.
How I know there's nothing more.

Back to Top :

Color Blind Portrait

They came in the morning and took the
body away. I thought of going with them.
They wore white, and carried it down
the stairs, wrapped in white. It was
like a parade of ghosts. But there was
no music or laughing children. I know
I'll never forget that picture. I wanted
to go with them.

I followed then out the door, through
the garden. The garden never looked so
ugly. I never thought the garden was so
ugly. The roses were black, the violets
were black, the lilacs were all black.
There were only flowers and ghosts. Just
black and white. Everything was so black
and white.

They put the body in the back of the car.
Then one of the ghosts said something to
me bat I didn't hear the words. And they
drove away with the body in the back,
wrapped in white. They just drove away
down the road with a white body in the back.
It was very simple.

The car turned left at the corner, then
stopped for a small child to cross the
road. I know I'll never forget that picture.
I felt my body going with them.

I walked back through the garden, the
black garden, and into the house, up the
stairs, to the room. I stared at the clock
and portrait hanging on the wall. Just a
clock and a portrait. The clock said ten
o'clock, quietly. The portrait said good-
bye, quietly. I walked out of the room,
quietly. There was no longer anything to say.
And I will forget that picture.

Back to Top :

Breathing Rooms---The Down Ward

The room is large. It is white. There is a door.
It is white. There are four walls. They are white.
There are three beds. They are white. There is a
floor and a ceiling. Both are white. There are three
people. They are also white. The room is white. Only
the bars over the window are not white. They are
black.

The old man sits by the window. He is very old,
and he is counting. He sits by the window, counting,
from one finger to the next, from his right hand to
his left, then back again. He counts and counts and
counts. He spends his days, his weeks, his months,
counting. He spends his life, counting. Even as he
lies in his bed in the night, he is still counting.
He never stops counting.

The middle-aged man walks. He walks from one wall,
across the room to the other, along the walls of the
room, from the door to the window and back to the
door again. But the door is locked, the window is
barred." He must walk inside the room. And he walks
and walks and walks. He would walk on the ceiling if
he could. He would walk through the door if he could.
He would walk through the window if he could. But he
can't. But still, he walks. He walks because his body
shakes. His body is always shaking. He never stops
shaking. He never stops walking.

The young man lies in bed, hating. He hates. He
hates the room. He hates the door, he hates the
window and his bed. He hates the old man and he hates
the middle-aged man. He hates the counting and the
walking. He hates and hates and hates. He hates the
woman who brings him breakfast, lunch and dinner. He
hates the 'breakfast, lunch and dinner. He hates it
all. He hates. He never stops hating.

The door opens. The old man continues counting,
the middle-aged "an continues walking, the young man
continues hating. A man enters. He is a doctor. He
is dressed in white. He looks like a doctor. He walks
to the bed of the young man. He walks like a doctor.
"How are your wounds healing?" he asks. He talks
like a doctor.

"How are your wounds?" the young man says hatefully.
He hates the doctor.
"In your case, very slowly.”
"Which case am I?" the young man asks.
But the doctor ignores the question. He ignores
like a doctor. He pulls back the sheet, and removes
the bandages wrapped around the arms of the young
man. He examines the wounds. He examines like a
doctor and says, "The right arm is healing fine, but
the left will take some time. It's a much deeper
cut." He wraps the arms again with the bandages. The
young man says nothing. He only hates. The old man
counts. The middle-aged man walks.
"Is there anything you'd like to talk about now?"
the doctor asks.
"Nothing."
"Very well. We have an appointment tomorrow
morning. Maybe then, you'll want to talk."
He turns away and leaves the room. The door is
again, locked. The room is still white.
Time passes. The old man counts, the middle-aged
man walks, the young man hates. And time passes.
Their lives go on, counting, walking, hating. Every
moment is counted, walked and hated. And every moment
is not forgotten because every moment is designated
in their own individual way. What one man counts,
another man walks, and another hates. But his plight
is the hardest. He hates so much, he even bates the
hatefulness. And time passes.

The door opens again. It is a woman this time. He
has never seen her before, but he hates her anyway.
"You have a visitor," she says smiling. She smiles
like women who open doors in hospitals, sickingly
sweet.

She disappears, then the door opens wider, letting
a man enter. He smiles gravely and moves toward the
young man. He looks down at the hateful face.
"I wanted to come sooner," be says nervously. "I
had to wait for a flight."

"Yes, and you didn't want to make it look obvious.
Some people might ask questions and you'd have to
lie," the young man says hatefully.
"That's not very nice of you."
"I'm not very nice. I'm not nice at all. I hate
the word, nice."
"You hate many things, don't you?"
"Yes, living, for example," the young man says.
The man looks at the white room. The old man still
counts. The middle-aged man still walks. They are
oblivious to each other.

"Who are these people?" the man asks.
"Don't you know? You had me sent here. You locked
me inside this room."
"I didn't lock any door. I just had you sent here
until I arrived. I didn't know what else to do. But
I didn't think they'd put you in a room with such
people."

"Why not?" he raises his voice. "The old one
counts. He just counts and counts. I don't know what
he counts. Maybe he's counting the hairs on your
head." The man touches his head quickly with his
hand. "And the other one walks. He's always walking.
If he wasn't locked in this room, he would have
walked across the continent by now. He shakes too,
in bed, whenever he gets in it. He cries in the night.
He must be alcoholic. Why shouldn't I be in a room
with such people? Such people. I am such people.
That's why you sent me here."

"You're nothing of the kind."
"Then, what kind am I?"
"I'm not sure. I don't know you very well anymore.
But I know you shouldn't be with such people."
"Then, why did you send me here?"
"For your safety."
"Yes, and for your safety too,"
"That's not fair. I've spent a good deal of my
life taking care of you. And I still do. I'll see
to it that you're put in a private room."
"Yes, put me. Put me on the table, then put Be on
the floor, then put me in the closet, then put me in
bed."
"I didn't mean it that way."
"Well, I won't be put. As long as I have to stay
here, I'll remain in this room. I won't go to art-
other."
"But I think it'll be better for you."
"I won't move."
"As you like."
"I don't like. I just hate. I just hate."
"I know." There is silence for a moment. "Why do
you want to die?" the man asks suddenly. It is
difficult for him to ask this question. It is even
more difficult to know the answer. He doesn't want
to know.

"Yes, I know. You want a reason. You are a man
who reasons. There is a man who counts and there.
is a man who walks and you are a man who reasons."
"You make it sound as if I belong here."
"Yes, why don't you sit down?"
The man sits down slowly on the chair beside the
bed.
"Do you know what they call this place? Do you
know what it's called?" the young man asks.
"Not exactly," the man answers softly.
"They call it the down ward. Yes, the down ward."
The man looks shocked. "Yes, there's the maternity
ward and the pediatric ward and the surgery ward,
and the down ward. We're in the down ward."
"I don't like the sound of that."
"It's quite simple. Anyone who comes here,
doesn't improve, doesn't recover. They just go down-
ward. Some joke."
"I don't like this at all."
"And what will you do about it?"
I'm going to see your doctor," he says standing
up. "I'm going to have you moved from here."
"To where? The up ward?" the young man says
forcing laughter.
"I don't find it funny."

“ I don't either. That's why I laugh." The man
walks toward the door. "Where are you going?"
"To see your doctor," he says by the door.
"But don't you want to know the answer to your
question? Don't you want to know the reason?"
"Yes, but not until I have you moved from here."
He disappears behind the door. It is locked.
And time passes on. The old man counts, the
middle-aged man walks, and the young man hates. Time
passes on, counted, walked, and hated. Time passes
on in the down ward.

Back to Top :

Breathing Rooms---Still Life

She used to own a flower shop, but she doesn't
care about flowers anymore. She used to grow flowers
beside her husband's grave, but she stopped doing
that three years after his death. She didn't care
anymore. She used to go the park everyday to
feed the birds, but she stopped doing that too. She
didn't care anymore. She just site by her window,
by her television, by herself. She just doesn't care
anymore.

Some days, she walks through the hallway. On one
end is the kitchen and the balcony. She sometimes
stands out there gazing at birds and clouds and the
rain. Everything moved so quickly. It made her un-
steady. Nothing moved in her life. She would retreat
into the kitchen,

On the other end is the front door to the flat.
That also rarely moved. Only each morning, she would
make the journey downstairs to collect the news-
paper, and some days she would make the journey to
the market to buy the food she needed. The sounds of
the street tormented her: the people, the cars, the
buses. Everything moved so quickly, nothing moved in
her life. She would retreat behind her door, saying
to herself, "I am still alive." It is a still life.

It is morning in winter. She sits close to the
heater, sipping on tea and eating her breakfast. It
is like every other morning. The tea always tastes
the same so that she forgets how tea tastes. It is
just a cup of brown water. It is just a piece of
bread, a bit of butter. It is just a winter morning.

She pulls back the curtains and gazes at the house
across the street. The same three windows. She gazes
at the same three windows day after day. She never
sees a face or anything beyond them, only darkness,
only windows.

She can remember when there were no windows there.
There was no house there. It was a long time ago,
just after the war, and the house that was there was
destroyed. But it wasn't important to her. She was
much younger then, and rarely gazed at windows. It
was different then. She moved. Life moved. Every-
thing moved, even though there was a war. There was
death, but life too. And among so much death, she
felt very much alive.

But the war was a long time ago. And she is much
older. So she just sits silently and wonders who
lives beyond those three windows. It gives her some-
thing to wonder about as she sips her brown water
and eats her bit of bread and butter.

She rises slowly, pushing herself up from the
arms of the chair. She needs those arms too. Her
arms are weak. She turns on the light in the hall-
way, holding on to the wall. The walls hold her. She
needs those walls too. And then, she returns to carry
her breakfast tray back to the kitchen.

She trembles and moves slowly. She's had accidents
before, although they were hardly accidents. The
walls in the hallway remind her. They are stained
with tea which she has spilled on her way to and from
the kitchen. Something would go wrong. She could
never explain it but something would go wrong. Left
would go wrong. Right would go wrong. Forward would
go wrong. Backward would go wrong. Up would go wrong.
But down would never go wrong. Whenever everything
else would go wrong, down would never go wrong.
Because, she would fall down. Her tray would fall
down. Her whole world, it seemed, would fall down.
And after the shock, she would pick up the pieces or
glass and herself and walk along the wall as though
she were walking at the edge of a cliff, a very high
cliff. Slowly, she would return to her chair and be
glad to be still. It is a very still life.

She walks to the kitchen slowly, without accident.
The kitchen is cool. She leans over the sink and
washes the dishes. Clean dishes are important to her.
It is her habit. She refuses to live or die in dirt.
She expects to die any moment. But moments pass,
hours pass, days, weeks, months, even years pass, and
she still lives. She dries her hands and returns to
her chair, by her window, by her television, by her-
self. She picks up the newspaper.

Windows are her wonder. Money is her worry. As
the years pass, she watches her money disappear to
pay for food and rent and heat. She is frightened of
the day when she will have nothing left. She feels
that it will come. ."And then, what will I do?" she
often asks herself. She has some idea. She would
have to ask for help. She would have to give up her
flat and her belongings and move into a home with
others like herself. And they would be mean to her
and treat her carelessly because she would have no
money and would be helpless. And she would say no-
thing and have to be still or they would put her
into the street. She would show her fear and her
loneliness and sadness but it would only be still
fear and still loneliness and still sadness. And
people don't care about people who are still. This is
her idea. She turns the pages.

Her newspaper acquaints her with the world. Her
television is old and needs repair. The picture and
sound are often distorted and she doesn't enjoy
using it. And she dares not ask someone to repair it
for her. So she relies on her newspaper to inform
her, entertain her and educate her. But it rarely
does any of those things. It usually only frightens
her. There are crises and struggles, attacks, alarms
and alerts, fighting and chaos, riots and opposition,
exiles, abuse and tension. "How different is the
world," she often says to herself. The war was a long
time ago. And the world seems very far away, but she
is still frightened. She locks her door twice, and
her windows every night. But she still doesn't feel
safe. Her wish not to live never wanes her fear of
dying. But she never thinks about this. She only
wants to hide herself from those struggles and riots
and attacks.

Naturally, she reads the death notices as though
it is her duty. She scans the. page searching for
familiar names and addresses. Sometimes, she reads
about the death of someone she once knew. She feels
a bit of a shock and almost thinks it isn't possible.
And then she thinks about herself, and again thinks
it isn't possible. As the years pass by, as the
crises and fighting continue, as the people she once
knew, die, she still lives. She is still alive. It
is a still life.

Before morning ends, she does her cleaning for
the day. It is another habit of hers. There is little
dirt, nor ever any visitor to even notice dirt, but
she will not live or die in dirt so this effort never
seems senseless to her. No matter how weak she feels,
nor how hard the effort, she struggles and she cleans
because she will not live or die in dirt.

She gets up and goes into the living room. But it
is not a living room at all. She rarely uses it since
her husband's death. It is the largest room in the
flat and she always feel uncomfortable sitting in
there. So she rarely goes in, except to clean. It has
some large, old pieces of furniture and some carpets
on the floor. It does have its beauty, although she
fails to see it. It is her habit.

She opens the windows. The winter air stuns her
for a moment but the room needs a breath of fresh
air. It smells of aging and emptiness. She listens to
the sounds of the street below: traffic, horns,
voices, footsteps. She looks down and watches the
passing vehicles and people. They all move so quickly
It is her only impression. She turns around.

There is dust in the room, dust which has settled
over every inch of the room. Her eyesight grows bad.
She can't see those specks floating in the air,
fighting for a bit of space on some object to settle.
But she knows they are there, so she dusts. It is her
habit.

The sounds of the city and the breeze blow in
through the windows. The room becomes aroused as the
dust comes to life. The stillness goes away for a
moment, but only for a moment. She moves about
cautiously, holding on to furniture when she must.
She dares not sit down in that room. So she works as
quickly as possible, closes the windows and door
behind her, without looking back. That is the living
room.

She returns to her small sitting room and sits
down in her chair as the millions of specks of dust
settle back down on furniture and other objects. And
everything is still once again. It is a still life, a
very still life.

Back to Top :

Breathing Rooms---In the Dark

"I'm scared."
The boy stands in the doorway.
"I'm scared, mommy. I'm scared," he repeats.
She sits on the sofa in front of him, surprised.
She smiles. "Come here," she says softly.
He goes to her. She lifts him up and puts him on
her lap, kissing him on the cheek.
"What are you afraid of?" she asks.
"The dark, mommy. I'm afraid of the dark."
"There's nothing in the dark. There's nothing to
be afraid of." She kisses him again.

He is not convinced. He is still afraid and does
not want to return to his dark room. He has never
woken in the night and complained of such a fear. She
is a bit worried but realizes that children, his age,
sometimes feel lonely in the night.

"Do you want to stay here with me?" she asks him.
"Yes, mommy, with you and daddy." But he looks
around the room and sees that daddy is not there.
"Where is daddy?"

"He'll be here soon," she assures him.
It is becoming late, just after midnight. He
always comes home just after midnight, as though he
has a clock inside his head. She doesn't know where
he is but she knows what he is doing. He is some-
where drinking, getting drunk. Every night, he comes
home in the same condition, stinking, stumbling,
slurring his speech, sometimes unable to speak at
all. She hates him when he is that way. And lately,
even during those few moments each day when he isn't
drunk, she still hates him. She hates his careless-
ness. And she hates the thought that their son
might learn how his father actually is.

He would never change. At one time, she thought
she night be able to change him. But it was useless..
Every night he would come home in his filthy drunkenness
and sit in a room with her and look at her and
smile at her. She would say nothing and only look at
him coolly. He would try to touch her.

She hated his touch. She hated lying in bed with him.
She almost hated being in the same room with him
"I'm going to have a bath and wash this stink
off me," he always said. But she knew that nothing
could wash that stink off him. He would lie in the
bath and fall asleep. When the water became cold,
he'd wake, dry himself, and join her in bed. If she
weren't asleep, she always pretended she were so
wouldn't have to face him or talk to him or touch
him.

She stares at the bottles of alcohol on the bar
at the other side of the room. Once, she thought it
was those bottles that caused his carelessness and
his destructiveness. And she became violent and
broke every bottle of alcohol in the house. But then,
she realized that these were only pieces of glass
and liquids and labels. And how could pieces of glass
and liquids and labels cause destruction? Yes, how
could they? Only people destroy others and them-
selves, she realized. Only people are destructive.
He moved it the very next day, when he replaced
all the broken bottles with full bottles. That was
the day she stopped loving him.

She looks down at her child. He's fallen asleep
in her arms. She is glad. This night, he would not
learn what she already knows. She carries him up-
stairs to his bedroom and puts him into bed. He does
not wake. She returns to the room, lights a cigarette,
and continues reading the story she's begun.
Shortly later, he does come home. She hears the
door of his car slam shot, then the door of the
house. He walks unsteadily into the room where she
sits. He sits in a chair opposite her and smiles.

"Hello," he says.
She does not smile. She says nothing. It is the
same thing happening again, to her and to him. But
she doesn't care anymore. She doesn't wish she could
change him. She doesn't wish he were younger. But
she wishes he were dead.

"Hello," he repeats. Then he lazily recounts the
events of his evening, unclearly. When he's finished,
he adds, "Come and sit next to me."

She looks disgustedly at him. She does not move.
She is still silent.

When he realizes she will not, he looks down at
his untidy appearance and says, "I better wash this
stink off me first."

He leaves the room and climbs the stairs. She
hears the water running in the bath. He undresses
himself and falls into it. In a few minutes, be is
asleep.

She continues reading the story. She only reads
short stories, although their titles and authors are
unimportant to her. She never bothers to learn or
remember them. She's only interested in the stories
they have to tell about lives or just pieces of
lives. They give her energy. They make her feel
alive. She's never felt that she is dead. But some-
times, she's felt as though she is dying} trying to
change him, trying for nothing, waiting for him,
waiting for nothing, holding on to him, holding on to
nothing.

"I must let go," she says to the room. "I must let
go," she shouts. She lets go of the book. It drops
to the floor. She stares down at the floor, then
quickly lifts her head and looks across the room.
She goes to the bar and stands before it, staring
at the bottles again. She grabs as many as she can
carry in her arms and recalls once telling him that
alcohol would kill him. She snickers.

Upstairs, she finds him lying in the bath, naked,
his eyes closed, his head slumped over the side.
Pathetic. One by one, she lets go. One by one, she
drops the bottles. One by one, they explode into
hundreds of pieces of glass. And one by one, the
floor becomes a sea of glass and alcohol. He doesn't
wake. She knows he won't. He just lies there, stinking
the water. She turns out the light. It is dark.

She closes the door and goes to her room to sleep.
Now there is something in the dark. About an hour later,
she wakes. She hears the screams and cries of pain.
He must have fallen, she thinks. The screams only
last a few moments, then a groaning which lasts much
longer. Then, there is nothing. Silence. It's over.

She goes back to sleep. She knows what she'll
find on the bathroom floor in the morning. She knows
what's in the dark. And she sleeps.

Back to Top :

The Body Suppose

the body poses
the artist’s eyes
the body supports
the artist’s life
suppose
the body pose
tries very hard
supposing
on the canvas
every part
proposing
very near
the artist’s heart
the art is then
reported
from hand until
distorted
by the artist’s head
hardly on the canvas
the artist part
is barely spread
u[o the artist’s bed
the hardest part
proposing art
instead
the art is
on the canvas
and the art is
in the bed
since the body poses
not only in
the artist’s head
the body reposes
in the artist’s bed
suppose the body
poses for the art
propose the artist
rose the hardest part

Back to Top :

Prologue

It was a pleasant surprise to come across a plastic folder with a number of poems neatly typed and arranged and placed in the folder. All of the poems began with “Poem For” and suggested an implied theme that Bobby had experimented with. As mentioned earlier, his writings are not dated and it is only through speculation that these poems may have been written in San Francisco.

He took a look around at some of the people that made up his life and made his observations about them. In this group of poems, as in other groups, he appears to be experimenting with poetic forms of playfully using words. In some of these poems, he separates words with slashes and imposes on the reader the need to puzzle and query the reading and meaning. In other poems in other sections, he plays with alliteration or with homonyms.

Back to Top :

Poem For A Foreigner

get out know/have
dial/ring/call example can/will information
want know/have
no
ring/phone/call
number
are
help know cook children story there
find husband
dial/ring/call can/will women tape
looking
a. If you want to hear a poem, you must dial 8362872.
b. If you don't know what to cook, you can dial 2468071.
c. If you don't know the number of your school, call Directory
Inquiries.
d. If you want to know who is President of Panama, you must
call the Daily Telegraph Information Service.
e. If you want to meet other people, you must call 3596321.
f. If you call the Salvation Army, you will find understanding,
advice and help.
You are a foreigner and you had better know how to spell it.

Back to Top :

Poem For A Traveler

here/there
follow to another Austria land/state/semi
visit to/too
an English farm alone
mother/father in semi/state
everybody
picking/taking up/on strangers/pictures
train
crossing/border/crossing
pass law feeling know how good
lost sheep
seeing you again/then
being/meeting again on/for/about
by/bye
1. Wherever I am I am halfway to where I am going.
2. Wherever I am I am halfway from where I am coming.
3. The search for a home is an endless task.
1. A home is simply the occupation of space.
2. The occupation of space is the fate of man.
3. The arrangement of space is an endless task.
1. Homes are self-inflicted chains.
2. The selfish man locks many doors.
3. The fight for freedom is an endless task.
I am never going home.

Back to Top :

Poem For A Native

shape up
bring cash
scout boy
divide profit margin/mate/material
what's in the races/paper these days
Latin/afternoon in bath
doses/balls
depending on eyesight/time/temperature
what's new
is not sure/willing/tempting
too much majority is bad for teeth
pull up
trump/trick on wheels
will say drive protest
tastes sweeter/sour that way
stay up
protect animal pro your/poor
late elevations
campaign swings in democratic beds
sense in you/me
cheer up
come crawling/laughing
not know how I am
stand by ticket/you
stand by land long ago/gone
will be proud
will bet
move up
I speaking not your good language will never than less win on
that which beauty from exotic land have I.

Back to Top :

Poem For A Hustler

double/first room
with view/you
quiet because no television
price
is right/wrong
breakfast included lesson
skip
sleep/rest/review
like/love
our pleasant/expensive experience
dear
are nice down/over there
shall hear evening news
shall sing blues
1. If you want to spend the night, please remove...
2. If you want to spend the money please do so at your own risk.
3. If you want to use the bath, please switch off the light when finished.
4. If you must say something, make it short and eloquent.
5. If you have a wish, expect very little.
I know your kind and don't you forget it.

Back to Top :

Poem For A Lone Wolf

bored dog on stoop
be/bound twenty-five
will come/go again
as Mr. somebody
in white/oozing mass
all that's swallowed/yellowed there
will follow/mellow there
fruit still life
bored/locked/blocked door/dog
lights soon out
almost thirty/black
remember/forget good times
dream/wish good times
knowing they have never come
knowing they will never come
tragedy

Back to Top :

Poem For A Money Maker

when/want more money
signature/name on door/check
come to collect the rent/love
lend/pay/borrow
otherwise know having given
account
save/pay/lend
come to collect the laundry/love
till death do we part/pay/love
love insured in tax free heavens
pay
lead a life/luxury
pay
lend one less mouth/merry Christmas
pay
take/live one more holiday
pay
see doctor/test cry home on shoulder
pay
flesh/crime
pay
move to go
pay
You will pay for that for the rest of your life with your life.

Back to Top :

Poem For An American Product

American product/portion
born and raised in blue convertible
pardon/proper noun of nature
should have married me/him
hand dragged me down
in market value
north/west/east/south
on level of gutter/mother kitchen floor
no dirt/American fact/feet
friendly local library
yes it's true
yes it's you peanut butter/bacon/balls
joke on them/who/you
will come on show tv/time
in American/prime
butchered
ripe crop of young men
in labor
in prayer
in harvest
in memory
good dose of hope can/will kill

Back to Top :

Poem For Coming Home

dear/dear
have/did/are/will/can you
you don't say/do/never
I have/did/am/will/can
have
third world friend
lover in Berlin explosions
fine story/telling/story
did
invisibles reading labels
am
still free
you understand
send statement of alliance/results recovery
will
answer/surprise/news
packing hard/change of clothes/address
can
come soon
don't believe everything you read.

Back to Top :

Poem For A Child

seconds/sounds
keep eye ball/on/all good mothers
check up playgrounds/professionals
know where keep
secret matches
spreading earth/water/fire
in agencies
statistics on/off record
all children keep/secret records
to be one of us/you
doctor
it's a boy/profession/alive
one of us/you
will be bred/bored/beat
ten/ninety percent
one of us/you/them
anything is possible/desperate
but it's a small world/child
wait
bring hands together
clap/pray
wait
hope for best/future/image
wait

smile/run/die sooner/later wait
child left alone
wait
give up/all
wait all children will grow up, old and die.

Back to Top :

Poem For A Neighbor

live on number/in black book/around corner
no control of light/back/glance
control/answer telephone
half block on photograph/event/crime
distance
increase/decrease
live off laughter/pain/luck
good and bad
am one you in space
light years touch in dark
will come morning/evening
friendly/stranger strange/friend
keep space/distance
dear neighbor
keep garlic on hand
dear neighbor
keep in touch
dear neighbor
keep moving
dear neighbor
I hear nothing. I see nothing. I know nothing. I just live here.

Back to Top :

Poem For A Saturday Night

looks at walls/walks
has
bowl full of nuts
perfect stranger
on/in paper/mind
will be one of them
point one hundred percent
perfect murder
has
body in mind
perfect timing/motive/alibi
fade in fog
not found in morning/papers
choose legend/outfit
run scared
takes just one night/motion
to be looked after/sought
in that world of less percent
inside cell/grave
perfect ending

Back to Top :

Poem For A Good Boy

say/play
name your nature/sign
sign of your nature/times
star
libra born
star/moon/weight of time
level time bed another
enjoy
all on/off track
earns entrance fee back
move
queen/pawn/bishop
check/win/find mate
break even/hearts
party soon gone/come
laughing all the way to the John
smiling
1. A good boy knows his nature.
2. A good boy does not just grow up, he is born and raised.
3. A good boy makes his moves.
4. A good boy learns his lesson well.
5. A good boy breaks at least one heart.
6. A good boy never cries.
All good boys will die.

Back to Top :

Poem For A Musician

this is the last instrument of love
same old one piece band
same old piece in my hand
lovely
melody of love
lovely
notes/not
what notes won't/but
what notes want/not
what notes don't/but
what notes blow/and
what notes know playing you
here to unite us into one/none/unknown
in monotones/lower tones/higher tones
groaning on a telephone
hands on/down/off
heads up unite/separate
hand piece right off
laughing
a. If the movement's moving, it's all in the hand of the man.
b. Pause. Applause.
c. If it finishes it all, am I finished?
d. None. Unknown. This lover has no face.
e. If I am moved, am I removed?
f. Instrumental. Something mental.
g. I am moved removed.
I've heard that tune before so just give it up.

Back to Top :

Just Talk

I
What's wrong?
I don't feel very good today.
You don't look very good today. In fact you look horrible.
I know what I look like. I saw myself in the mirror.
So that's why you don't feel very good.
What do you mean?
You saw in the mirror how horrible you look and now you don't
feel good.
No. And stop telling me I look horrible. I hate that word.
Alright. I'll use another word.
No. Don't use any word. Don't say anything else. You've made,
me feel worse.
You look worse.

II
Will you meet me there?
Yes, I think so.
You sound like you don't mean it.
I do.
No, you don't.
Yes, I do.
Say you do.
I mean it. I will meet you there.
Promise?
I promise.
OK. See you there.

III
You're late.
The train was late.
I didn't think you would come.
I told you I would come.
Yes.
Yes. I promised.
Yes. I know.
I didn't know the train would be late. Anyway, I didn't promise
to be on time. I'm glad I'm not.
I'm not glad of anything.

IV
I want another drink.
We've finished the bottle.
I still want another drink.
The bottle's empty.
Then I'll just say it. I want another drink. I want another drink.
Wait.
I am waiting.
I think there's one more bottle.
I'm waiting.
I'm right.
I'm waiting.
Here, drink it.
Thanks. Aren't you going to have some?
No. I'm writing.
Here. Take it with your free hand. Take it.
Damn you. You've spilled it all over the paper.
I'm sorry.
Stop crying.

V
No.
Then cry.
I am. I want to.
I don't worry about tomorrow.
Why not?
It's in the dictionary.
A dictionary is just words.
But definable. That's why I worry about you. You are not in any
dictionary.

VI
Drive down Fifth Avenue.
Where to?
Down Fifth Avenue.
Where to down Fifth Avenue?
I'll tell you when I want to get out.
Don't you know where you're going?
Yes, I know where I'm going. Is it your habit to aggravate your
passengers?
No. I just like to know where I'm going.
You're going down Fifth Avenue. That's where.
Right, right, right. We're going down Fifth Avenue.
Exactly.
We've just passed Twenty-first Street.
I'm aware of that. Stop at the corner of Sixteenth Street.
So you do know where you're going.
I told you I did.
I didn't believe you.
Why should I lie?
People lie.
People tell the truth too. Here's your money.
Here's your change.
Keep it.
Hey, thanks.

VII
There's a lot of nuts running around these days, you know.
No, I didn't know.
Sure. Just take a look at that guy over there.
I'm looking.
And what do you see?
A guy over there.
But he's nuts. Just look at him.
I am.
He's nuts. Can't you tell?
No.
No? You must be nuts. Lot of nuts running around these days, you
know.
I know.

VIII
I think we should have talked more.
What did you want to talk about?
Just talk.
What did you want to talk about?
Just talk.
But what did you want to talk about?
Just talk.
What did you want to say?
Just talk.
How do you feel about the weather?
Just talk.
That's what I thought.

Back to Top :

Cafeteria: Afternoon Break

I feel terrible.
You don't look so good.
Want an aspirin?
There's a bug going around.
Who's got a bug?
Had to keep my kids home all week. Drove me crazy.
What are you eating?
Nah. Think I'll wait till I get home. Have a nice cup of hot tea.
He's a pain in the ass.
Can't wait till he takes his vacation.
Where you going this year?
We thought we might try one of the islands.
We were there a couple of years ago. Forget which one. So expensive.
Think you're made of money down there.
I'll take Atlantic City any day. Two weeks there and I'm fine.
You gotta match?
That's a. cute blouse. Where'd you find it?
No kidding? Never thought of going in there.
The prices!
You gotta beg, borrow and steal these days just to make ends meet.
On our salaries.
Just gotta cut back.
I told my Ralph I just can't afford meat seven days a week.
I'm making spaghetti tonight.
What's in the paper?
Nothing.
Wish that machine would make a deceit cup of coffee once in a while.
What are you yawning about?
My George kept me up half the night coughing and sneezing.
Supposed to get snow tonight.
Since when is she on a diet? She was eating cheese cake at lunch.
You call that a diet?
My mother's going in tomorrow. Just some tests.
God bless her.
Did you see the new guy in 32? Not bad looking.
Too skinny for me.
Kinda walks funny too, don't he?
This place just aint the same it was years ago.
Time's almost up.
Back to the rat race.
Gimme a piece of gum before you go.
Yeah, back to the rut.
You said it.

Back to Top :

Night Out

two words can make a difference
like
thank you or
fuck you
or wanna dance
or maybe another
or maybe a few more
I'm into real estate
What's your sign
For sale or sold
I know what you mean
I know what you mean
I know what you mean
But I didn't mean that
not that
not that
fuck off
he's trashy
and moves like a cat
he'll kiss any body
with a mouth and big biceps
I wasn't meant for this
not this
not this
You're cute
Are you animal mineral or vegetable
I didn't mean to offend you
I didn't mean to insult you
I didn't mean to ignore you
A man of questionable ties
A man of questionable motives
A man of questionable intellect
Do you come here often
Do you wear that always
Do you do it
You do
That's what it all comes down to
Doesn't it
I mean
That's really what it all comes down to
going down
to me
to you
it all
goes
down
down
down

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Cats on Carousels

we are like cats on carousels
out for the night
out to kill
whoever flies by our eyes
whoever we like to bite
whatever comes out of the black
and the blue
we turn on the prey and the
tune of the room
and each of you
will have a turn to
to turn into our food
in time for our good mood
we won't forget your last wish
like the taste of fish
and cats on a carousel
will leave before the morning
and the mourning when we're gone
we'll return without warning
for another kill

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