Tuesday, October 26, 2004

NEW! Anthony Robinson poem

Anthony Robinson


And it is not my window, but the window of the cat of friends

Andrew came over to retrieve his book and his wife is someone I used to despise

These things

These things, observations I suppose,

Are healthy.


I am still not a reasonable man and I am one to despise. My despiseability knows no bounds.

Neither attractive nor particularly brilliant, I still love little things like Doug Powell’s beautiful book, Tea.

I don’t particularly like the drink that men call tea. I prefer coffee drunk in my own small town that I despise and love in the way a man can only love his kid brother who picks too many fights and acts like an asshole in public. I love this town because it’s mine and it’s in this town I drank and fucked and failed and.

Assholes, like Gabe Guddings, are numerous. They are so numerous, in fact, that there are more assholes than there are people because all mammals have assholes. The same holds true for many non-mammals.

Kent Johnson is an asshole, but he is lovable, though I’ve never loved him in a family way, nor in a bath-house way. I’ve loved him in a far away way like a son who was bad.

I am a bad son and I haven’t loved a woman in a physical way for nearly 14 months and before that another 14 months and the gestation period of my sexual couplings is fourteen months--more than a human baby’s gestation but much less than that of an elephant.

I became fat to provide an excuse for my lack of coupling. Alice Toklas, Andrew told me today (just minutes after I read his book and the dedication that slammed my beloved/hated hometown) that Toklas uses too much butter and is unhealthy.

It is unhealthy to live with Gertrude Stein. I am sure of this.

It is not unhealthy to cook with three tablespoons of lard. It is about living. Doug Powell said this in his book. The part about the living, not the lard.


Gabe Gudding Cloud has morphed into Can of Beer Cloud, and then Tamale Cloud, and then Elk Antler Cloud.


I think I am in love and it’s fucking terrifying. Only the anonymous people on the street deserve my love. Everyone else is in the wrong business.

I’m trying to be a good son. My vision has been obscured by “the compacts of sluts.”

The compact compacts I make with compact people impact my tacky tactless life.

O, you ... O elbow and hymn. O drudge and bastille-stormed Nancy. O, you un-Franced, much frenched like a fancy lambchop. O

I’ll push you off the map.

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