Every time I see a
McDonnell-Douglas
80,
Or MD-80,
I sweat the deadened
Drop
Of a labor
I’d wish not
Remember.

We called it,
“The Oven,”
Name and noun
For the belly,
The belly of the
Beast –
Texas high noon
And no water,
While
Tossing luggage:
*******,
Prongs
And cadavers,
Hours on end
Under Spanish howl
And deafening
Jet engines.

I soon left,
The tarmac,
The turmoil
And clamor
Of airport operations areas.
I picked up,
Walked to the
Cantina
‘Cross the way,
Grabbed a beer,
Grabbed a U-haul
And grabbed my
Girl
On the way out.
I’m here now,
North
And of no end to
Mechanism,
My commodity
Food,
My machine,
Now a car,
Though admittedly,
When I look to the
Sky
And spot an MD-80,
I remember my
Toil
And sympathize for my
Sister,
A blonde and the
Youngest of the brood
Who continues to
Stomach that very
Hell
I’d freed myself from.

That ******
Cicada.
She won’t let me sleep.
She won’t let me sleep!

Won’t let me sleep –
When I’ve worked my shift,
I’ve paid my rent,
I’ve fluffed my pillow.

Won’t let me sleep –
In between harassment,
In between the bill collectors,
The brawls and the *******.

Won’t let me sleep –
When people fail,
When bombs fall
And children perish elsewhere.

She won’t let me sleep.
She won’t let me sleep!
That ******
Cicada.

She won’t let me sleep.

Born to Mother Malice
In a merciless time and place
Where thought so often
Gave way to fight
What chance of trust here?

And so there is no anchor
For a restless wandering soul
Sailing on the savage seas
Of the lost and insecure
On a journey to who knows where

                                              By Phil Roberts

I drown in the depths of your ocean
I hang from the noose of your words
I suffocate as you take the air I breathe
I am pale from your winter so absurd

I burn by the scorching heat of your dessert
I am lost in your maze of lies
I am scarred by the blade of your selfishness
And I am blinded by the beauty of your light

-on my mother's last months, or how
to do the final step without moving

I am not ready to go, she said.
I accepted doctor's verdict;
still, I ask: why me, why now, why?

     I hate these vultures, mother,
     that eat you from inside.
     I faintly see them through your skin,
     not even trying to hide.

I am not ready for resignation.
I am so angry about all this.
I am so angry with you.

     Your heart is cut in half
     and all we see
     is darkness:
     distrust, anger, fear.

I am not ready for all the answers
that wait for me on the other side.
Oh, let me have my questions please.

     Your brains are chopped to pieces.
     Little spans of time -
     that's all you keep in mind,
     and dismiss again with ease.

I am not ready to go.

     A premature Tibetan burial,
     a cruel death while still alive:
     witness of your own decay.
     So that's how Mother Nature will finally arrive?

I'll never be ready to go.

     Wait until she comes over the top,
     an almighty demon, an enemy from within.
     So that's our clean, sober, rational world:
     a cold, efficient killing machine?

I'll never be ready to go.

     I'll never be ready to go.

The darkness, as well as the drying roses

The quiet and sad moaning,

of people and lost souls

Fresh graveyard dirt and the fading scent of lilies.

Salty tears, as they cascade down faces

The heart aches and throbs.