Archive for the Paul Corman Roberts Category

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

1937-2010

 

_______________________________________________________ Continue reading

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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

RIPTIDE TWILIGHT ON THE MACARTHUR PLATFORM by Paul Corman Roberts

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
please.

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
longingly
willingly
soulfully
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.