There is this lamp that sits right on my desk,
layers of dust signaling lack of use,
I bought to make my space more picturesque
that's still void of light, though with one excuse.

I could replace the bulb sometime tonight
but I do not desire that false glow,
for things look better in the morning light;
what’s in the dark I do not want to know.

I don’t recall a time that lamp did work;
it gets me into bed before sundown.
It is no myth that monsters like to lurk,
they tend to use my thoughts as their playground.

It is simple why I won’t fix that lamp:
I’m tired from running monster day camp.

She is grass cut fresh on the hill.
She is the chaos that's holding me still.
She is birds in a nest in a tree.
She is the formlessness I cannot see.
She is here.
She is now.
  She is bread in an oven.
She is a river of blood.
She  is the vein in Atlas' forearm.
She   is  juggling chainsaws and daffodils.
She    is the deer in the forest grown from the ashes of the last forest.
She  is everything and nothing and something and some more or less.
She is the Goddess who birthed all your gods.
She is the oldest and oddest of all.
    Sheisheaven,hell,thedeepestwell.
She is answer E) All of the above.
She is fierce, violent, conflagrate love.
She is the hole punch around the binder ring.
She is the throat through which we sing.
She is swimming through my eyes.
She is running through my mind all night.
She is whispering herself in my ear.
She is the ashes, the forest, the deer.
She will repeat it, if you did not hear.
She is She is Again and Again.

She is:

A story.


A good one.

I will read I will read Again and Again.

In the night somewhere
A baby cries
And somewhere else
Lovers sigh
And as time passes
An old man dies

Somewhere out in space
A planet turns
And light years away
A star sun burns
Making us merely dust
And no-one learns

                                 By Phil Roberts

“The problem with falling is sooner or later
you’ll have to hit something.”
- Jenny Owen Youngs

My eyes met your eyes
at nine years old in the cafeteria.
I learned you were terrible
over a loud lunch where

your laughter met the spilled drink
and tears making their way
down another’s skin.

Your hands met my back
before I met the sting
of your unheated pool.
This was the standard when

my lips met your lips
at an age we boasted
in a space that was ours.

My friends met your personality
not once.
Our space was where you launched us.

My gaze met the Milky Way
when you were the only one
around to care for light years.

My feet met the ground
when you called me
your favorite expletive.
You rethought that stunt when

my fist met your face
upon remembering how terrible
you were in the first place.

“Nobody owns life, but anyone who can
pick up a frying pan owns death.”
– William S. Burroughs

Through a door that is not mine
that’s left ajar from time to time
we see a man with zany eyes
scarred-up face, mouth full of lies.

Through a window at an ungodly hour
the night our neighborhood lost power
we see the man pull on a mask
and knit the weavings of his task.

I should have gotten quite the scare
when he pulled that woman by her hair,
then tossed her in the hole he’d fill
and quickly cover with daffodils,

but I’m no stranger to playing detective;
his plots have proven rather defective.
A call to the cops brings a rap on his door
that eventually leads to the lush garden floor.

Now, I don’t think I’m deserving of fame
my ego is simply much too tame
but I have kept dark things from view
and you listen well, so I’ll share with you.

There is something you should recognize
in that man with zany eyes;
don’t always believe what you’re told to see,
for he who plants the daffodils is me.

I promise that my grin is not of spite,
as my cheeks begin to crease from the weight
of my smile stapled wide. My eyesight
is tinted green just thinking of your date.
I promise that I don’t resent your side
or hands that get to linger on someone
I think I deserve, though I never tried
to be the one you needed to outrun.
I promise I’ve been in a similar
boat, but waves sound like an aquarium
against yours, so just take my signature.
Paint my mind with the way you love them,
because I promise what’s yours feels like mine
if you’re someone I can hate all the time.

Boredom is sameness.
A note held to talents end
will be just noise.