All of his letters ended in goodbye
instead of to be continued

someday we're all going to die
my brother, he would say

now he's got me saying the same
words like the moon and darkness
that only we could hear

he'd listen to the blues and sip whiskey
until morning, then wake me
from my sleep, tell me to go out

and cut the weeds
growing up around the stone
angels in the field.

Sound is the bringer of life, but silence is a killer, and it's quicker than a b rated movie thriller, I'm looking for a filler, the tiller of my heart, grinding, grinding. Binding me from living, giving.

I crave what you hate, I laugh at your ignorance even in my forlorn state, in my head screaming "it's to late", but wait... who is that, my favorite consequence of my love, the best b rated movie thriller, my filler, and with this silence is no longer my killer.

for Leonard Cohen
RIP*

That holy voice that undid the buttons of dresses
whispered them off shoulders onto the floor;
songs that celebrated the pellucid sky of Greece;
the dark confessions of hustlers and junkies;
Abraham poised with the knife of obedience;
the desperate Hallelujah of broken kings;
razors in the hands of beautiful losers;
generous assignations in dingy hotels;
the singular Glory of the god of Art;
spoken in the minor chords of death;
celebrating the discordant mystery of life;
danced to the very end of love, never missing a step.

Wistfully
Wishfully
My daydream drift
Takes me eye to eye
And hand in hand
On a sunny morning
Somewhere
Settling dust
Step by step
And side by side
There's a tide close by
Responding to gravity
And gravity of sorts
Draws our souls
Fatefully
Inevitably
Together

                     By Phil Roberts

I know every line of your glorious face
with an ever gentle touch I solemnly trace

Despite the Bakelite ****
etched with a range of degrees,
the vintage Wedgewood oven
has only two temperatures:
warm and nuclear ash.
But **** it looks good—a sleek hulk
of white porcelain and polished chrome,
a 1950s Cadillac parked next to the fridge.

When the house is dark
the fluorescent stovetop
glows like a dashboard
illuminating candy wrappers and road maps,
and the kitchen soon stretches to landscape.

I wander in, whiskey in hand, and stand
on a road cutting across a darkened field.

Below cast iron burner grates
pilot lights flicker and burn:
blue seeds poised to blossom
when the Bakelite dials turn.

I reach for the bottle
and the kitchen ignites
into a meadow of larkspur.

Fragrant flowers
mixing bourbon;
I drink it all down,
let the blues drive.

Momma can't cry right now.
She's got too many kids that beat her to it.
                                                       beat
                                                            ­beat
                                                            ­     beat
Like the thrumming of her heart.

There's too much poetry for pain
And songs riding the waves of grief.
That's what it is to be human, Momma whispers,
Even if no one hears here, even if her children have g    o    n    e
                                                ­                                             o   o
                                                               ­                             n         n
                                                               ­                                 e            e
Scattered to the winds like her hopes and dreams
And she's afraid she'll never see them again,
That the lump in her throat is cancerous with grief
And it's stuck like she is and she'll choke.
               stuck
               stuck                              fear
she   is  stuck      in       her                       self
               stuck                         grief
               stuck

But Momma can't cry right now.
The tears would splash like broken glass
And splinter like her h
            (beat)                    e                        ­                  (beat)
                                        ­     a             (beat)
                       (beat)                r
                                         ­            t                            (beat)
Murmurs like her soul.

There's too many questions in the dark
And monsters hiding behind words.
That's what it is to be free, Momma whispers,
Even if
      ven if
            en if
                 n if
                       if
                           f
                           You    d  i  s  a  p  p  e  a  r

To be (not) seen, not heard,
To be the silence at a wake.

Momma can't cry.
Momma can't cry.
Momma can't
She
She can't
Can't cry.