NEW POEM BY T. KILGORE SPLAKE

12 o’clock high


awkward ‘v’ formations
returning springtime geese
louisiana flyway miles
empty spaces
gaggle members lost
like b-17 squadron ghosts
bishop cobb wilson zimmy
daylight bombing raid
schweinfurt germany
flak fw 109
nightmare

ROB PLATH

predecessors & newcomers


there are more ants
appearing on the kitchen floor
i slap some with a newspaper
they don't stick to it though
their small little black bodies
remain on the white tile
like wiggling burnt flecks
from the frying pan
some don't move at all
i am on my way out
so i leave them scattered
until i get back
but upon my return
there are more again
the tiny corpses of
their predecessors
do not deter the newcomers
from invading
they just walk around them
and head up towards
the kitchen countertops


This is the last of the current crop of poems by Rob Plath, though I would hope to publish some more in the future. In the meantime you can read more by Plath at his MySpace site (see link on the right), which he updates with frightening regularity.

sunday

getting up at six.
black coffee in the dark.
porridge reading
poems from japan.
night drawing back
over the village
slowly.
at precisely eight
somebody drilling
instructions barked
across the brittle air.
the stream of cars
steadily increasing
until they flash by
interchangeably.
monk tinkling
on my stereo at nine
free-form piano
anachronistic brass.
on sundays
all you do
is wait and watch.
the day starts
at ten o'clock
when the supermarkets open.

ROB PLATH

jonny brokenworld

jonny brokenworld sneaks out of the shadows
of alleyways to grab still-burning cigarettes
flicked onto the sidewalks by passersby
most of them are taken down to the filter
but jonny doesnt mind, he smokes the filters
gathers the fumes into the branches of his lungs
"that's where the heroin is," he mumbles to himself
"that's where the heroin is, fuckers"
then he blows his crooked bumpy nose
by placing a thumb over one nostril
& snorting out of the other into the gutter
then jonny slinks back into the alley shadows
& jonny brokenworld sleeps beneath a cold tarp
& jonny brokenworld swims in all of our plasma

ROB PLATH

the gladiators

long before i began writing
the typewriter made my gut jump

in a good way that is

the entire machine intrigued me
from the keys to those two thin
metal rabbit ears in back
that held the paper up


same goes for liquor bottles
long before i ever cracked a seal
the different colored bottles
set something off in me

i sensed something
good & powerful in these things
& then a few years later
i found i was right

they are the true weapons
of gladiators

There will be more poems from Rob Plath, and a bio for the curious, in the coming days.

poem: JAN

precise physical resemblance
proves nothing, dearie.
strong gift at the typer? pshaw,
don't get sentimental on me.
they surround his corpse
like feeding crows, you know,
all these failures and fuck-ups
fifteen times removed.
there must be some kind
of goddamn screening process.
can't throw ten thou at every
old drunk with a letter
that promises the world.
soon there would be nothing left.
except the books, of course,
yeah, except the books.

poem: jack

for gerald nicosia

jack denied fatherhood
of a whole generation
of long-haired sensitive seekers.
one beauty of a talented
daughter also, straight
off the books, right out of the will.

his good qualities are famous,
and he wrote like a dream.
he was just that sort
of absent dad, i'm afraid.