Monday, February 22, 2010




and the trumpet brigade blew out my brains



even when the world is dying

on its ornate golden end table

the dust and grey light fading

into the belly of its shadow

you don't miss


as cinderella crying

removes her glass eyes from the moist

bedrock of her broken face

the tears pouring into the tomatoes

in the salad bowl

you don't miss


as children pass the ball flying

down the field of blue green

shouting and cheering while the

grey giant approaches in the distance

appearing over the mountain with a tank

in one hand and an airplane in the other

you don't miss


as the windchimes clatter sighing

outside the window in the unknown

thunder of south central

texas. an owl growing a garden

of hoos in the black steam of

the skies black ear

you don't miss


you are the greatest player

to have ever lived maybe the

greatest player of all time and

i do mean maybe. because


when the blood is drying

into the earth and not a single person

can still sing anything remotely

interesting in spanish

and even after you took the keys

to the car and drove to boston one night

my heart locked in the trunk

the wind a different color than before

a starling song squeezing out of the radio

'gold me now i'm ready to go'

eating the soft wilted spoiled peaches

the juice lining your mouth's blankets

swallowing the pits and teeth

broken off in my tongue

you didn't miss





4 comments:

pppslm said...

"an owl growing a garden of hoos..." this poem is mind blowing, which of coarse doesn't suprise me at all. it is somewhat similar to the imagery found in another famous bob's lyrics/poetry. im hopeful you will put out another book someday but i realize you are a busy man

Leslie F. Miller said...

Bob, as a former newspaper and lit mag poetry editor and a current poet, I don't say this lightly. You are good. Moving poem.

AndiWritesAgain said...

Damn...in a good way.

jp72 said...

This one is special. I could read it over and over. I will read it over and over. I love it.

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