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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. -
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. -
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. -
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.
-
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.
-
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.