Homage To Robinson
A Poem By Reyes Cardenas
The City Damned
With Ann naked in bed
Robinson stared out the window
at the barricaded city,
smoke rising from the burning buildings,
the Algonquin’s ashes,
Dorothy Parker’s derrière.
Just then the phone rang
like a ghost of sound
and Robinson pulled the cord from the wall.
In the rooftops he could see
how easy it would be
to fly too close to the sun
but Robinson thought better of it
and sat down on the bed
as Ann breathed air from who knows where.
April 21, 2006
Sunday At Five
“Hello. Yes, this is Robinson. Sunday
at five? I’d love to. Pretty well. And you?”
As he hung up he knew he didn’t mean it.
He thought of his affair with Mrs. Morse,
those stretch marks on her belly,
the cellulite on the back of her thighs,
the vast star-field in her eyes,
the air almost visible
swirling about in the room.
clinging to sheets, to curtains, to lungs.
Sunday at five, what was Robinson thinking,
he put his hand through his black hair
as if that would solve the problem.
“The city is tyrannosaurus rexes, “ he thought
“that eat men
in the subway, in plain view on the streets,
even in front of the police station.”
Robinson would not look at Robinson in the mirror.
April 22, 2006
House Of Robinson
Mrs. Morse took a bath
after making love with Robinson
for the second time this week.
Earlier on the way to Robinson’s gray apartment
her heart beat like a cop’s nightstick
against a skull.
Since there was no answer
when she rang the doorbell,
she took out the key
Robinson had given her and let herself in.
He arrived much later
with justifiable stories about a poet he knew.
In his arms she made nonverbal noises.
Robinson was always quiet,
barely uttering a sound during nirvana.
She peered into his soul
like one would look into an abandoned house
but the house made her look away.
April 22, 2006
Robinson’s Library
God is seen looking around for God,
the beach bereft of water,
wind so strong it bends itself.
Robinson is back at Berkeley
arranging his library
around Ann’s thighs,
her ankles a volcano.
But the thoughts of this moment
might as well be covered in snow
because, unfortunately, the smiles of the bathers
have followed Robinson home
dragging high-tide to the door.
April 22, 2006
King Kong
“ I wonder if it’s lonely being King Kong?”
Robinson wonders as he falls
from the top of the Empire State Building
down to the hard concrete
that wakes him up from his dream.
He goes right back to sleep.
The carpet gathers itself on the floor
woven by machines
sweated over by the working class,
the metal frame of the bed
put together in a dirty shop
by rough, callused hands
which don’t pick up the New York Times
or use the Tribune
only to patch a broken windowpane.
The cannery workers
who put the canned food in his pantry
would ignore poetry unless it gave them a raise.
April 23, 2006
The Sound Of Ice Cubes
When other people talked of joy or happiness
Robinson looked away
and banished such foolishness.
The elevated train went by,
its noise made of rusted metal
that never needs feelings.
The buildings stand tall and proud,
they glance at the sea
because all they can do is glance.
Robinson took a drink
that would lead to another drink
until he was drunk.
“Happiness is admiring elephants in the park,
the sound of ice cubes dropped in a glass.”
He read Toynbee backwards.
Devoid of highs and lows
would be fine he thought
before he sank into a chair in darkness.
April 24, 2006
On The Beach
Robinson in flowered trunks,
eyes toward the breakers.
“What was it Matthew Arnold said
about the ebb and flow…?”
Robinson couldn’t recall at the moment.
How long had the sea
been making this sound?
How long can it keep
making this sound?
He felt the sea between his toes,
the broken shell of a sea creature
shattered who knows when?
What kind of life
had that sea creature lived?
A life like Robinson’s?
He flung his cigarette butt into the surf,
a jellyfish rang twice clear as a bell
and was gone.
April 24, 2006
East Side Bars
When the night ends Robinson finds Robinson
in East Side bars,
he drinks a part of himself with each drink,
he shuns the bar mirror.
He does not look at the bartender,
the bartender always knows what Robinson needs.
Occasionally Robinson glances over
at the figure of a woman,
her skirt is ankle-length,
a hat covers her head,
the flamingo pin on her lapel
far away as Africa to him.
The barstool creaks
as Robinson turns around.
His watch is ticking a sound he does not hear.
A sound like a stampede of buffaloes
in the American West
and Indians shot dead
by Robinson’s fellow man
just a few short decades ago---not that Robinson cares.
He swallows the icy drink with his heart.
April 25, 2006
Relegated To Robinson
Somewhere in Brooklyn, early fall,
the leaves dive-bomb like kamikaze Orientals
in the sky above Manhattan,
the smoke rising from factories
where human beings are slaves to themselves,
gladiators with no Coliseum,
not torn apart by lions
but by the very labor which pays their way.
The sewing machines rape women.
Robinson walks by garbage men
battling an army of trash.
The city issues them no medals.
Yet, Robinson sees nothing but himself,
the streets, the noise, thousands of people
along his way do not exist.
April 24, 2006
The Missing Links
The Algonquin rises like the sun,
the missing links parade in and out.
Prufrock, in an overcoat,
thinking he’s still in England
nods to Robinson a greeting
Robinson doesn’t seem to acknowledge.
Pigeons fly overhead retaining history
as part of a newspaper flies down the street,
the pigeons questioning, “what kind of bird is that?”
Robinson is meeting friends for coffee.
They talk about a song he’s composed,
a friend admires his Glen plaid jacket
but Robinson’s mind soars a million miles away,
a pterodactyl and the world viewed
with pterodactyl eyes.
April 25, 2006
Natural Bloom Cigars
Under a sign for Natural Bloom Cigars
a girl tugs at her underclothes as she walks.
Robinson can not help but notice.
He records it in his mind---
the shape of her hips,
the sway nature has over nature,
the animal instinct to pounce,
to ravish, to cast asunder.
Let the hyenas have the rest.
Her high heels click on the pavement
like a mouse would click
years hence on a Word document.
A word that escapes Robinson right now,
the flesh, after all,
is not meant for words.
April 25, 2006
Summers On The Cape
Robinson was out of town,
spending the summer on the Cape,
strolling on the beach
he denied eye contact even to the gulls,
a sandcastle of some skill
caught his attention,
he contemplated flotsam and jetsam,
the greatness of the sea,
the sea uncaring---
justified in Robinson’s mind.
As a group of bathers walked towards him
he aimed for the dunes,
the sound of the surf changed,
he tried to decipher the new meaning
as the wind poured through the sand.
April 25, 2006
Plastic Venus
Robinson stopped and gazed into a window
where a plastic Venus, modeling a truss,
looked out at Robinson,
her missing arm roaming the ancient world,
lying somewhere still intact,
reaching across time
and time swatting it away.
The things men are capable of
bound only by imagination.
The picture-window into our souls
made of unbreakable glass,
a door allows you in but not out.
Robinson thought he saw his own head
shaped like the Sphinx
reflected on the window for a split second.
He thought about it for awhile
as the desert unfolded before him
but he fought off the sand and heat,
the perspiration cooled his body,
the street became wide again
and his lungs grew back.
April 25, 2006
The Rooms Of Robinson
The rooms of Robinson have no walls,
windows will not close,
doors will not budge shut,
the blinking sign outside
advertising rum or corsets
is blinding on the floor next to his bed.
Robinson kicks it, gives up,
covers his head with a pillow
and tries to go to sleep.
The dreams come back
like Cardinals in the Vatican
dead before they become Pope,
Italians sifted like flour,
traffic re-routed around Robinson
as he pulls on the sheets.
The park trees, though they are blocks away,
want to show Robinson their rings.
A neighbor makes granite noise in the hall
before he gets into the elevator.
“At this time of the night!”
Robinson cursed.
His words bounced along the floor,
snagged on the carpet
and stood there astonished.
April 25, 2006
Robinson’s High Noon Dream
Delmore hated Robinson
and would go out of his way
to diminish Robinson’s gifts,
the vast city was not big enough
for the both of them,
word-slingers, one dressed in white,
one dressed in black
(this would be Robinson, of course)
the sun in Robinson’s eyes
as Delmore drew first, fired
and in a stupor missed,
crumpled to Times Square filth like a big bear.
Robinson did not shoot,
looked at the skyline,
walked uptown like Gary Cooper,
put his hands in his pocket,
forgot the incident
like childhood memories of sadness.
To the townspeople
the woman and the buckboard
did not seem reward enough.
Robinson sneered on his way out of Dodge,
the mountains in the distance
made of dust.
April 25, 2006
Late For A Movie
The Hudson wears its dirty topcoat,
a gold watch would not spruce it up.
There’s a Bogie movie in town
Robinson wants to catch.
When he gets home his wife is pulling nylons
over her thighs,
a surge of desire rushes
through his body and passes.
He sits down pensively
in his own darkening,
he tries to shock himself
but electricity has never been invented.
Nobody thought of fire or wheels.
“Aren’t we going to be late
for the movie?” says his wife.
He looks at her as if she were
some strange prehistoric creature
like himself.
He helps her with her coat,
they go out and he locks the door
with a stone.
April 25, 2006
The African Queen
Robinson comes out of the theater
holding his wife by the waist,
the crowd chatters about The African Queen.
At the coffee shop Robinson does not listen
to the conversation between himself
and his wife,
she’s talking about the African romance.
Robinson could imagine
the spinster naked,
elbow bones here, bony knees
tossed in the air,
the river noises hiding her sighs
but then he drifted off to melancholy.
Some epic he would write
about something specifically unimportant.
“Why are you putting so much sugar
in your coffee?” says his wife.
He thinks out loud, “Trying to sweeten Lake Victoria.”
“Oh, honey,” she confesses,
“I wish I was where you are.”
But Robinson was somewhere else by then.
April 26, 2006
Subway Home
On the subway home
his wife was in a good mood,
making hippo-ear imitations
like Charlie and Rosie
while Robinson could only muster up
an image of the African soldiers
shooting at the boat in the bend of the river.
No one could see steam venting from Robinson
as he propelled himself down the rapids,
rocks protruding, white-water menacing,
boat jumping in the air
as if to get away,
there is no getting free he told the boat.
Robinson knew all the nooks and crannies
of disappointment,
the darkness pouring into the sun
and the sun being unable
to put up a fight.
April 26, 2006
A Dark Snow
All winter long, it seemed,
a dark snow had kept falling,
snowflake stabbing snowflake
in the muddy ditch
outside of Robinson’s apartment.
The sludge resembled snowmen gone bad.
Christmas lights on Broadway
were colorless reflected in his eyes
even though Robinson kept his head down,
his fedora pointing at the horizon.
The shoppers appeared confident
in Macys or Shorty’s Liquor Store,
whiskey looking out at the city,
rum running out of patience,
God a per cent of alcohol.
Robinson bought his bottle
and hurriedly smoked a cigarette
that burned the city down to his fingers.
April 26, 2006
The Hanging
With a noose around his neck
and the captain of the Louisa
giving orders for them to hang Robinson
Allnut’s homemade torpedoes go off
sinking the ship almost immediately
and Robinson is saved once again.
Robinson does not fight it---
when you’re in the middle of a lake
you have to swim ashore,
when you’re on top of Kilimanjaro
surrounded by a glacier
you’re going to have to find the way down,
the forest at the foothills full of predatory animals
waiting to tear Robinson apart
like the naked jungle of New York City,
the rope-burn on his neck proves it.
The phone rings somewhere in the room
and scatters wildebeest.
April 27, 2006
Morning Coffee
Once ashore Robinson wakes up in bed,
his wife’s hand on his shoulder,
he slides out of bed to make coffee,
the traffic outside is making the noise
all traffic has memorized,
violent buildings hold it all in,
immigrant faces look strange in sugar
as Robinson looks out
the second-story window.
Buses transport worker ants
down into holes
to save the queen,
the subway’s full of termites
white from not having seen the sun
that rotates around earth.
Robinson put bread into the toaster
until the toast popped-up
in his mind.
Robinson did not hear the sounds
his wife made in the toilet
or hear her wash her hands and face.
He did not see her brush her hair
in the mirror Robinson used only
as certain demarcation.
April 27, 2006
A Race Like Robinson
Robinson was in Washington D. C.
when he heard the news like everybody else
that a visitor from another world had landed
and caused havoc throughout the city,
the country, throughout the world
by merely turning off the electricity.
Robinson laughed until he heard
that the visitor and his giant robot
had destroyed an entire Army
and then he wondered if there were
Robinsons on this other world,
strolling about under umbrellas,
shuffling their feet at a bakery,
sea-sick on an escalator?
He went to see the space ship.
The robot was motionless
until it sensed Robinson was near
and it opened it’s faceplate to look at Robinson,
almost as if he perceived a brother.
After a moment it closed its eyes,
Robinson buried a cigarette-butt in the grass with his foot.
April 28, 2006
Milk Bowl
The world can drive us crazy
even if we’re already crazy
thought Robinson as he opened his mail,
a letter from Randall Jarrell
praised this line or that.
A note from Rexroth about Tu Fu.
Robinson poured a bowl of milk for the cat,
the cat meowed, licked
and came up with a milk-mustache,
groomed its fur, meowed again,
rubbed up against Robinson’s leg,
disappeared around the corner.
Robinson had forgotten what he was thinking
and turned his attention
to the mail again after he picked up the bowl
from the surface of the floor.
He rinsed the bowl out in the sink,
the clock-wise maelstrom disappeared
down to the depths of the city
to be received by the East River
as close to a blessing as any river could hope for,
the returning of water
so it could be returned to the sea
and from the sea returned to the sky and back again.
Oddly, Robinson looked up at a primordial sea
at the creatures around him.
He swam in unison with the school.
April 28, 2006
Harmonium
Robinson poured over Wallace Stevens,
the poetry was not as dull
as the man,
the boring man sitting on the couch
thinking about the odds,
listening to the radio,
reading the Wall Street Journal,
his reading-glasses
sticking to his face like a frown.
Is the poetry at home in the city,
Bronx, Brooklyn, Harlem?
Let’s not judge
thought Robinson as he closed Harmonium.
This man is much like myself thought Robinson
as he flew across town like Superman,
the kryptonite was himself,
green, full of the taste
he dreaded as a child and now.
April 28, 2006
The Conquering Hero
Robinson roamed the lush jungles of Mexico,
the Sonoran desert, the Vera Cruz beaches,
the contested Indian lands,
he climbed the pyramids with Malcolm Lowry,
he partook of La Malinche
because that’s what white men do
he thought as he looked into the mirror to shave,
being careful not to make eye contact,
being careful not to look into his soul by accident.
He dried his face with a towel.
He looked out his hotel window,
was that El Popo smoking
or was that the whole of Mexico blowing up?
Robinson packed his suitcase,
went downstairs quietly, a sad Conquistador.
May 1, 2006
Lazaro Cardenas
Years later President Cardenas promised
to bring democracy to Mexico
but it didn’t quite work out that way
thought Robinson as he looked at Denver down below,
the mountains full of snow,
the road almost empty,
skyline as unimpressive as living there,
clean air its only gift.
Robinson sitting in a diner
hundreds of miles from Mexico,
appreciative of it, but disillusioned.
Back home a clay Mayan head
sat on his desk across the ages
and in the jungle of his mind.
Robinson climbs the steep steps of a pyramid,
one wrong step, sacrificial,
one wrong step, a plunge to death
thought Robinson as he steadied himself.
Just then Robinson noticed an old Mayan looking at him,
he seemed to be amused by Robinson’s plight
and unconcerned by the decimation of the Maya.
Robinson put a spoon in his soup,
put more sugar in his tea.
The street dragged a pedestrian past the window.
May 1, 2006
Never Changed A Flat
Robinson never put water in the radiator,
he never changed the oil,
he never changed a flat or windshield wiper.
In that, he was like most of you.
He never squealed his tires
or drove too fast,
he gripped the steering wheel
at nine and three,
he avoided heavy traffic.
Robinson ignored machines
as much as he could,
his thoughts cut in half by music.
He wrote the words down,
stood back, got closer in,
was happy with the tune,
until his thoughts drifted towards him.
He did not relish being himself
as he slammed the car door,
not that he was angry at the piece of metal,
no, it just didn’t close right
unless you really gave it a good shove.
He walked his Robinson gait
upon the faded asphalt
which had grown between the trees of time.
May 3, 2006
Parking Lot
Robinson parked his Plymouth,
the dirty salt air hit his face,
he felt like slapping it back,
the bridge rose like a behemoth,
like something Ahab would battle,
something that would subdue Job once and for all,
something to entangle clouds or wind.
Robinson walked up the path
with the earth beneath him all the way to China
and then the precipice of the Chinese sky,
a Chinaman speaking Mandarin Robinson joked
as he walked into the grass,
its leaves like daggers in his heart.
He touched his chest
but there was no blood,
individual atoms fell out the wind
and bounced along on the ground.
An electron startled Robinson.
May 2, 2006
Part Two
The Afterimages
Trash In The Streets
The trash in the street gathers itself
being put to shame by man’s indifference.
Robinson doesn’t seem to notice,
he wraps the coat around himself
in the chill of fall.
Roman leather would not do
against this enemy.
The lions of Robinson’s coliseum
growl and circle,
once indoor they are subdued
by Robinson’s puffing on panatelas.
Smoke curls angry
even though the long nails
only scratch the surface.
The lions and Robinson have become one.
The Birds
The birds circle in the skyscrapers.
In the kitchenette Robinson prepares
pancakes in the image of man,
his black ribs still covered in sand.
A phone rings in the living room
but it resonates in the sky,
its sound visible and ignored,
wires shoot straight up a thousand feet
tinted by the wind.
Robinson finally answers.
He’s to review a book of poems
by a sad poet.
His coffee tastes like a rug,
pancakes float in front of his chair.
He looks at the spoon as if it’s become a wall.
The birds circle in the skyscrapers
but do not land, do not focus, do not glide,
trapped, as they are, in Robinson’s mind.
Welcome To Today
The radio shakes like an atomic bomb,
Robinson wakes up with a start.
For a moment he doesn’t know
if it’s his wife next to him
or his mistress Mrs. Morse
(and does it really matter?)
Of course not, he tells himself,
once he comes to his senses.
They fit in their underwear different
he begins to think before his mind hurries
to whatever the day may hold.
He flushes the toilet,
the water becomes clear again.
the ocean pours back into the tank,
killer whales, sharks, manta rays
swim in panic and confusion.
Welcome to the club
Robinson motions, aware but uncaring.
Monkey Man
Robinson meets friends at a bar,
the human glasses fill with human blood,
but everyone laughs and jokes.
Robinson surprises himself by laughing, too.
What ghost has been shaken loose,
what fire escape has not rusted in Harlem,
what airplane has damaged the sky
beyond repair, how will we fly again?
Has anyone bothered to tell the birds?
They say goodnight, head in different directions.
The subway rattles, turns, stops,
rattles on again like evolution.
Robinson is hanging from trees,
his prehensile tail does him no good.
He flings excrement at New Yorkers.
When he gets to his apartment
Ann is asleep, cold supper on the table.
Cold food doesn’t hinder polar bears.
From one chunk of ice to another,
and black and white dreams of continental drift
Robinson finally falls asleep.
Foul Ball
The peanut-munching crowd
gathers to praise triumphant Robinson.
The foul ball nearby
bounces with a thud
and ends up in some bruiser’s glove,
the brute hands the ball lovingly to his son.
Robinson’s been persuaded
to attend the game
by Mrs. Morse, damn Yankee fans,
their pinstripes settle against the centerfielder.
Robinson’s thoughts migrate
to Mrs. Morse,
the mole above her knee, hidden by her skirt,
fine, invisible velvet hair.
A fast ball in the catcher’s mitt
echoes in the shortcomings of right field.
Robinson strikes out, throws his bat
at the opposing team’s dugout.
The boos follow him all the way home.
Only the filth of the city
cheers him as he climbs the steps.
The Bullfight
Why did he let her talk him into going
to the baseball game,
the beasts of his human race
always wear him out,
their flesh exposed to the elements,
the elements themselves exposed, gaunt
Ferris Wheel proud of its staggering height.
Magellan proved the world
was only half round
and Robinson still believes it so.
Like a Spaniard
he will persist living in caves, he insists
that bullfights deserve more credit than baseball,
there is no deception,
the pure joy of killing for pleasure,
the crowds forgiven by the Pope.
Robinson has no such recourse
so he suffers in hallways, kitchens, bedrooms.
The Perpetrator
He reviews the book by the sad poet.
The faun in love with
an 18th century poetess,
petticoat layer after petticoat layer
in her everyday life,
her rebellion against men.
And this frail man praises her.
Robinson will not persecute him,
he’s too exhausted for that.
The city thunders outside,
the sun wears on him,
taxis sweat yellow,
the taxi drivers stink of police barricades.
Who’s been murdered, maimed, or raped
this time?
The perpetrator flees through Robinson,
destroying internal organs as he runs,
the curtains should have kept him out.
Fighting The Pigeons
Ground-dragging skies keep pigeons
from roosting in our souls,
soiling God’s gift,
instead they roost at obtuse angles.
Robinson swings his sword at them,
feathers flying, the pigeons
slam their brakes, screech to a halt.
What’s this madman doing,
their birdbrains ask?
They fly to the Empire State Building,
to the Chrysler Building,
certainly Central Park isn’t safe, they wonder?
Robinson puts his sword away,
walks to the lake, takes out his sword again
and cuts the lake in half.
“Robinson, how does that make you feel?”
He hears an echo in his head
of empty Manhattan.
The iron beams of the buildings are exposed,
the brick and cement are gone
from Robinson’s heart.
It does not matter if the streets
have a home or not,
he convinces himself and a startled bystander.
Slowly the pigeons return
and co-exist with Robinson
on the sharp edge of the island.
Robinson buttons his shirt,
looks in the mirror at his dark mustache,
runs thumb and index finger over it.
Fire Island
He goes away on vacation,
a two day getaway to Fire Island,
the wheels of the Atlantic roll ashore,
brake wet with sea, salt-corroding sky,
children and parents
unaware great fish veer at them,
lost ships foam, missing Navy planes surface,
the tin can of Atlantis
is being kicked by teenagers into the dunes.
On the horizon a freighter
hurries to deliver goods that support
the bad as well as the god-fearing.
Robinson grabs his towel,
wipes off the sand
created by Poseidon a zillion years ago.
The ebb and flow bewilders Robinson
so he heads back to his cabin.
Ann squirms like mermaids in seaweed nests.
These vacations seem to wear him out,
do more harm than good
and leave him out of touch with his unease.
Arrival Of Robinson
It comes as a surprise to Ann
when Robinson tells her to pack the bags
for an extended trip to Mexico,
she wonders what to wear to a volcano
and Robinson shakes his head.
Pack shorts to climb the pyramids,
learn Spanish to talk to the natives.
Grand races used to occupy the land
but now it’s ravished by the peasantry,
they drive cars like burros,
they marry their daughters off at twelve.
The sun burns a hole in their heads, he’s sure.
Ann questioned Robinson but Robinson
was busy trying to calm
the viciousness of his conquistador.
The spears bounced off of him,
the arrows, the rocks, the whole war party.
Robinson, the disgusted conquering hero
to his own spleen, to his own horses.
He pulls one stone from the pyramid
and the whole thing comes tumbling down.
Aztec Defeat
Bruised and battered, mad-hattered,
they reach Acapulco
still smelling of Aztec stone,
the smell of Aztec defeat prevalent.
They want to shed their skin,
lips of the feathered serpent
like lipstick in Ann’s compact mirror.
Robinson’s hands are purple
until he hangs up the purple towel.
They get in their bathing suits,
a demeanor of the beach
is all Robinson can promulgate,
a Mexican girl brings the drinks.
The sand between his toes
struggles as he crushes it,
soon a fine dust floats above them,
surf echoes, then eliminates
all other sound
except the sound of Robinson’s heartbeat.
Sea creatures swim as far away
as natural laws allow,
come full circle to Vera Cruz
and Robinson’s pounding blood
spurts through their bodies still.
Robinson and Ann
retire to their cabin.
She turns the lights off in his chest.
Golden Gate
They fly from Acapulco to San Francisco
where Robinson has thoughts of re-locating.
The Golden Gate Bridge comes into view,
the sea in his eyes, white-caps break like glass
against his jacket sleeves
as he moves his arm onto the armrest.
Ann sleeps, the clouds fly.
Someone’s intentions worked out well,
he thinks. The airplane window so thick
it would take eons to drill through it,
but Robinson doesn’t have the time
and turns back to the sacrilegious present.
He wakes Ann; they’re on the glide path,
the city rises up to meet them
like the family dog.
The cold nose of San Francisco
seems to agree with Robinson,
it brings out the terror in him,
the terror he needs and cherishes.
The cable cars tear into his flesh,
that’s ok, that’s alright, fine, he whispers.
Bridging The Gap
They drive across the bridge,
pity the poor souls who labored up here
to create this monstrosity and marvel
thought Robinson when they reached the other side.
They turned right back around.
Puffing on his cigar
as they strolled Fisherman’s Wharf,
devoured seafood like coastal people,
fish eating fish, ambushing,
disguised as sand, as stone, as anemone.
They swallowed everything headfirst,
the snake had taught Eve that much.
Soon they must fly back to New York,
Robinson’s stomach would be in a knot
to get back home,
his sweaty palms would never dry,
the biblical flood of sweat, pillars of salt.
Robinson’s soul dies of thirst.
New York, New York
Sometimes the blood demands blood.
Back in New York
Robinson relishes the affront of the city,
the nastiness, the ogre of mankind,
God forbid this traffic was dinosaurs,
stegosaurus, brontosaurus, T-rex,
the sharp teeth of buildings,
blood-thirsty Macy’s coming straight at you
before it dismembers shoppers instead.
Robinson continues on to the Village,
he’s looking for a particular book
to cross check a review.
He ponders the silly poet holed up
in some flea-bag hotel,
writing epics, surrounded by giant rats.
Robinson kicks them away,
but they come right back, endearing.
How can man live this way, he yells!
He buys the book he needs,
he heads back toward the vast
and empty halls of poetry,
unending warehouse filled
with abandoned creations.
What fools! He feels the statement
attack his chest, cobwebs shake
with freshly trapped insects in his mind.
They do not taste that bad.
A snide smile spreads across his face.
The juice, the crunchiness
of the human race finally surfaces.
He slams the warehouse door shut.
From the outside it looks so nondescript,
rusted tin, wind blown trash all about,
derelicts, dirty and smelling of cheap wine
ask Robinson for a spare dime.
Robinson has outworn his welcome with himself.
Rendezvous
Robinson called on Mrs. Morse.
It had been almost a month and a half
since their last meeting.
She had told him over the phone
that Mr. Morse would be away on business
for the next two days.
When Robinson arrived at her apartment,
she was wearing an Ionian nightgown,
satin, sheer, as he followed her
to the bedroom he was hypnotized
by the undulations.
Had it been this way for Adam,
the sudden rabid desire,
attacking in pairs of arms and legs,
hair, sinew, cluttered savanna of the mind.
Sitting up in bed he sees
the hyenas approaching for their share.
He promises to call her tomorrow.
Lady Liberty
Feeling guilty over the forbidden things
Mrs. Morse endures with zest,
he calls her up early,
“I thought I’d take you
to the Statue of Liberty today,
and lunch afterwards.”
She’s excited as she puts down the receiver,
starts going through the closet
for just the right outfit.
They climb to the top of the Statue,
look back at the skyline
where monsters, men and mice
eke out a living one way or another.
He holds her by the waist,
lust surges below the surface,
flies underwater to Staten Island and back,
just to prove it can be done.
The hourglass sand pours through Robinson.
At Hurley’s
He took her to Hurley’s for lunch,
climbing the stairs to the third floor.
Robinson made sure he didn’t run into pigeons,
clouds, anything headed
to La Guardia, a stray Nazi blimp,
anything disagreeable.
The waiter seats them by a window.
She orders seafood from the cold ocean,
creatures choking in nets,
a Frankenstein crew pulls them on board,
the Gulf Stream continues empty to Britain.
Robinson orders a steak.
In New Jersey an Italian caveman
splits a cow’s head in half with a dull axe,
the cow stands there, not registering the event.
They enjoy their meal.
Outside the window, down there,
pedestrian ants pursue their nonsense,
different from Robinson and his mistress
only by the luck of antennae.
The tip on the table tolerates gravity.
He kisses her on the sidewalk, looks around
to make sure all these strangers
are indeed strangers like him.
Yes, yes, he doesn’t know himself,
yes, yes, he doesn’t know her as well
as he knows her body and his.
Witness For The Persecution
Ann has suspected as much,
that hint of strange perfume.
Sometimes she lies in bed,
she touches him, she reaches for him
and he just lies there
like the sheets, like cold weather,
like ice on ice, she caresses
the iceberg, it doesn’t melt.
She finally turns over and goes to sleep.
But today she had followed him,
watched him and the woman board the ferry,
waited the hours for them to return,
followed them to the restaurant,
loitered on the sidewalk across the street,
hidden by strangers,
watched him kiss her on the mouth.
Kiss her on the cheek, let her be your friend,
kiss her on the cheek, she screamed
inside herself, but no, he held the woman
by the waist in an all too familiar way.
Tears poured down Ann’s cheeks,
nobody looked at her face, nobody cared,
nobody gave a damn.
She took the subway home to hell.
The Fight
As she opened the door
she heard him in the kitchen,
she doesn’t want to go in there,
but as soon as she’s facing him,
he knows it and looks down at his shoes.
“Who is that woman, is she your whore,
is she your slut, I saw you kiss her
on the mouth, you can’t tell me
she’s just a friend!”
He tries to say something.
She throws a cup at him,
it bounces off his shoulder,
the shrapnel pierces his heart,
he falls on the cup
as it spins on the floor.
He falls on the cup
as if he was a soldier
sacrificing himself by falling on a grenade
to save his buddies.
In Flanders Field the poppies grow
so far away and yet so very near.
The Reconciliation
The reconciliation took time,
even God was called in to build
earthen dams, to re-route streets,
to battle city hall and its red tape,
to negotiate with La Cosa Nostra,
to bugger teamsters, crooked cops and preachers.
God took the East River over one shoulder,
the Hudson over the other shoulder
and siphoned rubbish, fish, footballs,
glass, old rusted cars, six days
turned into months and finally Robinson
was allowed back into his own apartment.
It would be longer before
they became man and wife.
A few trashcans still stumbled in their blood.
The lids separated from the cans,
from the trash, from the smells.
Robinson made a tin can sound as he kissed her.
She recoiled but then acquiesced.
Soon Robinson was himself again,
morose, matching gray wall against gray wall.
They walked outside to the busy street,
tried to subtract every one, children, cops, taxis.
The wind twisting in their fingers.
Time works its magic
by finding your card every time,
in piles of marbles, manatees or mountains.
Its marauders leave the land glistening.
If you look at Robinson he blinds you,
slabs of him, chunks of him roll uphill.
Robinson offers one of his rare smiles as he and Ann
force themselves through the maddening crowds
which crawl on all four out of buildings.
The Map Of Life
Robinson could see the rebar in the clouds,
bent out of shape, rusted,
ready to stab, infect, or just ignore you.
The rain rained upon itself.
The huge desert city down below
expected and received nothing,
an occasional shadow or two
drifted overhead,
and the rain dropped its pretense.
The subway passengers were gray,
or black & white if they stood on the New York Herald.
The hand-holds shoved greasy histories at you,
not at anybody else, only at you.
Robinson dug in his heels,
until he got to his apartment,
pulled back the curtains
to see where he had been,
to know where he was going.
March 12, 2007
The Naked City
The trees are bare, the birds are bare
in Robinson’s chest and shoulders,
the branches rattle as they climb down.
Every building in New York City,
in the Bronx, in Brooklyn, in Queens
has lost its windows,
has lost its doors, even the tallest buildings
sport a single floor,
the echoes are horrendous,
and reverberate out into the Atlantic,
up the Hudson River.
Robinson meets friends for a drink,
they’ve lost their faces.
No arms, no legs, just torsos,
yet everybody’s cheerful, jolly, jubilant.
On the street, the cars have been turned inside out,
the steering wheels, the seats, the drivers,
the blaring radios are bolted to the outside.
The tires do not seem out of place
piled inside next to bumpers,
trunk, hood, and windshield wipers.
Robinson nods goodbye to his friends,
walks down the street
towards the cemented sky forever.
March 11, 2007
