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 18^th 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