Rob Plath

no, just, no 
somebody told me once 
“god never closes a 
door w/ out opening 
& i thought, what shit 
if anything that bastard 
bricks you the hell up 
into a tight little shit house 
where you pound & claw 
until the walls are smeared 
w/ almost everything 
that moved thru 
yr goddamn vessels 
& you wait for death to swing 
its dark sledgehammer 
cracking a crazy hole 
the size of yr cadaver

talking to the dead
i walk outside 
91 degrees 
late august 
& i sit & braille 
six beach stones 
i collected after 
my mother died 
it was her birthday 
two weeks ago 
then i decide to examine 
the backs of my hands 
vessels just like 
my mother’s hands 
we’ve always had them 
even young 
these blue rivers 
gathering at our wrists 
i imagine rivers smoothing 
rough stones into glass 
& the knuckles 
like five little adam’s apples 
jumping whenever our hands 
performed something 
i remember my mother 
always chopping basil 
& slicing green bell peppers 
as a child i thought her hands 
seemed separate 
from the rest of her body 
the adam’s apples jumping 
her hands breathing 
fed by a web of blue rivers 
i can’t talk to the dead 
but i’m lucky to have the same 
backs of the hands 
these breathing hands 
i open & close them 
beneath the hot august sun

ride the starlight 
i tried 
to be 
a recluse 
the womb 
but i was 
the hell 
of another 
& surrounded 
so i kicked
the walls of 
the blood 
& they thought 
i wanted 
to be born 
but i just 
to ride 
the starlight 
back to 
my true home

my old home 

never had shit on my heart  
while chilling in the stars 
now i have an ever-growing heap 
so i go out into the night 
gaze up at my old residence 
& my dark heart-strike mimics 
the tapestry of silver winks


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