Archive for the Paul Corman Roberts Category

Elegy for the 20th Century Liberal Activist by Paul Corman Roberts

Posted in Paul Corman Roberts with tags , , on December 4, 2011 by Scot

Don’t you remember?
Somewhere on this timeline
between Waco TX
The deterioration of our walls and grimy floor
Someone said needed sweeping once before
but these rebels don’t care enough
to keep ‘em clean anymore.

There is a dated sexual revolution
Somewhere among the heaps of rot
Strewn about our Occupy.
There is a forgotten labor movement
At the bottom of a laundry hamper,
A civil rights mandate
beneath a greasy pizza container.
The only movement visible now
Is toward the horrible clarity of sobriety.

We’ve been squatting
beneath the barricades for so long now.
Long enough for history
to go all fuzzy via time exposure.
Long enough to believe recess is over
& the bell rang
& we just missed it.

Don’t you remember..?

Don’t you remember when the enemies’
advance battalions arrived
in their matching Circle K polyester uniforms?
Don’t you remember when they surrounded us
and just
…camped out?
Swilling Crazy Horse malt liquor
and processing legalese?

Our bastions shelled
batteries of forms
our turrets strafed
by business return envelops.

An armada of B-1 bureaucratic bombers
dumped their payloads
of competing deregulated utility bills
and eviction notices.

& we laughed.
We pointed in their faces
& so they opened up high-pressure hoses
Dousing and bruising us with a vitriolic ink
& still we took our eternal youth for granted.

Don’t you remember Visa’s special assault forces
scaling their way through our computers
and into our wallets? When treaties were posted
on the front gates offering truces in exchange
for letting the insurance Gestapo impose an existence tax?

So some stuck their heads out the windows and cried
“all we want is our sex, drugs and rock and roll to be on sale down at the mall!”
And then others stuck their heads out the window to protest that this was not at all what the rest of us wanted.
So media pundits and Wall Street columnists ensconced in sniper nests blew off their heads.
And proclaimed, “we’ve consulted what Jesus would do, and Jesus would say one out of three isn’t bad!”
Then there was a diplomatic concierge of Hollywood agents, recording industry executives and Silicon Valley headhunters and Angels waving mall itineraries.
And some cried out “we’ll take it!”
Then even more stuck their heads out the window
to protest that this was even less than what they wanted.
Only to have investors wielding gavels and invisible profit certainty blow off their heads.

Don’t you remember those few who were left?
Looking for a way out
For one
Or maybe
for all?

Don’t you remember seeing daylight
through cracks in a wall
clinging to its seduction of offered passage
Only to watch it fade
Behind the mounting paperwork mortars
that once seemed so harmless?

I remember
I see these things
again and again,
too many times to count.
That’s just the way things cycle
here in the encampment.
Like I said, history gets fuzzy.

I think the power has been turned off
& the urban-khaki storm troopers
have gapped the plumbing.

& that’s all right,
because the few of us left
didn’t want to go
through a social cleansing anyway.
It would have been unsatisfactory
knowing what awaits the party lizard
that manages to survive till the gray dawn light.

We’d rather wallow in the stink of the bunker.
We’d rather smile, smile, smile and wait
for the barricades we grew
and the tents we set down
and the community we tried to build
to copulate
with the diplomats and troops and
special market forces in one shining moment of clarity
when nothing stands between our pure existence
and their lust to reprogram us in their image.
What a fine moment
that is going to be.


a rusty truck tribute to todd moore by rd armstrong, charles plymell, fn wright, karl koweski, alan catlin, a.d. winans, paul corman roberts, david s pointer, misti rainwater lites, pete lally & scot young

Posted in A.D. Winans, Alan Catlin, charles plymell, David S. Pointer, F.N. Wright, Karl Koweski, Misti Rainwater-Lites, Paul Corman Roberts, Pete Lally, RD Armstrong, Scot Young, Todd Moore, TODD MOORE TRIBUTE with tags on October 10, 2010 by Scot


This issue dedicated to the memory and the poetry of Todd Moore

Poems by Todd Moore
& Friends

Todd Moore



_______________________________________________________ Continue reading

THE TRIP by Paul Corman Roberts

Posted in Paul Corman Roberts with tags on March 14, 2010 by Scot

I ride the train
Every day I ride
Through the realm of steel imperial ice walkers,
And all night I ride
So as not to dream so much
About making love with those born the same day as me.

I walk the walk
Each and every day
I walk by phat black mansions
Top shelf masturbation
Stoned temples
Demonic trees
And the O’ so tasteful belch of the American petroleum lobby.

O’ yes
I strut right on past
Dead men
Pedigreed winos
Wired lepers
Cold girls
Hot boys
Frenzied birds
And the best view these two hush pups can purchase.

So then I stroll
Through the schools of the well bred threads,
Just as blind as the next porcelain mannequin I fall in love with
Just as far as the next soul mate
Just around the bend

In these worn out socks;
In these run down shoes.

It’s why I walk the walk.

For the years of psychic blisters and calluses it takes
To steal oneself from the touch of rain, sleet and hail.

Yes, this will be the long
Drawn tale of the service economy flaneur
The in-between flailer
No need to think as backdrops pass
Just remember to sport your layers.

The poet wishes
Only to read, to drool,
To spin a world where
These dreams may turn sane.

For all of this
I walk the walk
Every day
For this
I ride the train.

LONG GONE 95 by Paul Corman Roberts

Posted in Paul Corman Roberts with tags on February 4, 2010 by Scot

Ghost ridden stretches the I-95
Cascade straddles the periscope horizon
Big city sinners dance immaculate
Inside sleep where you will see God’s country
Rich boys take it all up the surfaces
The cumming of white men pays off steady.

Rooftop gives surface to the hustler’s cry
Immaculate squat gone flaky with scheme
Robin Hood queers got one steady today
95 lies alone from Kingman poet
Country roads; I love my trailer park root
This horizon loving carney flesh shows.

Mama’s tracks stop at 95 truck stops
Still live loving surfaces betrayal
Convenience lost in country compact love
Steady nerves don’t hold, flipping in Vegas
Horizon ending in Spokane diner grease
Strung out to immaculate perfection

Strung out to the immaculate rejection
Surface man who once belonged to the street
Now all that is 95 lives away
Wakes of country pagans are more honest
Steady now son; the road just wants your life
Horizon’s gone; no more “have a nice day.”

Run to the horizon. Sleep in the dust.
Run to the country, it’s all your life’s work.
He’s cute on the surface, but wears no wings
Immaculate in bed, he pulls your strings
But his steady is rich, white and dickless
Highway 95 pads your every footfall.

Losing your not so steady grip on him
Your country roots are just as much a lie
As his new 95 grand a year blowjob
And his immaculate new trophy bride
You should never have left the horizon
You should never have got off the surface

of that long winding fucked up surface
that steady immaculate country horizon 95.

Paul Corman Roberts

Posted in Paul Corman Roberts, VIDEOS with tags on January 9, 2010 by Scot


Posted in Paul Corman Roberts with tags on November 3, 2009 by Scot

I know this brother

……….Even during the big storms the color of the sunset sky
on the platform from ten years ago

……….over California’s coastline at its best
was a little more Rasta back then

……….a crisp and healthy hue of gold
with the serape and the leather cowboy hat

……….with the occasional slash
and the hot and wild hair trying to jump off into the universe

……….of purple and red but never
making him much more Bob Kaufman than ever before

……….with the kinds of profusion
I take great hope in that and he is going to San Francisco

……….like the skies
He is praying and he will be warm

……….while I stare down the crisp, golden green San Francisco skyline
in the Mojave desert at sunset

CLOSER by Paul Corman Roberts

Posted in Paul Corman Roberts with tags on September 5, 2009 by Scot

Yeah, I’m the closer.  Pcr
Wait, don’t go

I know you’re tired.
I know you didn’t come for
my self-absorbed catharsis.
I know
there’s a lover you need
to get back to now
However real
or unreal they may be
But you waited this long
we may as well finish our ritual.
Just one more
minute I swear.

I know what you’re thinking.
You’re thinking that I’m just the kind of poem
to be hanging out till the last title
just the kind of poem who’s lost and
looking for a free ride

Who am I kidding?
of course I’m that kind of poem
but the thing about the closer is

I heard you tonight
saw you burn bright
& you know I’m blessed
to feel your embers’
occasional burst
into dangerous spark
that threatens to become flame
for better or worse;

blessed to smear the stain
of your ashes
in the old lachrymological
scratch across my third eye
all of which you have given
to the conflagration
whose dousing we now bear witness to.

And where are you going now?
Is it the place you most want to go?

Carry this ember back
into the dark with you
so your chosen creatures
will know you when
you return home to them.