It's a Thursday evening
and over par for the course I'm sitting
in a sandtrap.
The lie is bad,
I'm  buried next to a watering hole
in the wall.
I can't get out.
The half truth is I'm a drunk
a sea of sorrows.
Even the dolphins, I shed no mercy.
The real truth is I'm ***
anchored to a barstool,
barnacles from the dead sea
hanging on the four legs.
If this bar stool ever came to life
the voice would bubble to the surface,
get me to dry dock.
How fortuitous the wind in my sails,
finding every sandtrap
and waving at the mothballs.
Blind to letting the barnacles take it's course.
Corrosion creeping up on me, like its
relative.
Who cares about the long lost voice
or the red ants at his picnic.
Or if Uncle lost his strokes he never had.
Did someone say shipwreck?
I order another double,
with fire in my eyes,
adding another burn to my stomach.
I look at the bartenderess
and my eyes don't lie.
She's my type.
My head tilts this way and that.
I see people starring back at me.
If only they knew how the ball bounces.

Logan Robertson

12/21/2018

It was a Saturday night  in the park
his trees were singing
out of tune
his clay pigeons needed to come out
of his closet
for he was parked
on a stool
at his favorite watering hole
amongst a full house
where pairs beat singles
and there he was
shooting blanks
drowning in his sorrows
on his nine lives of lowlife
hoping for a sitting duck in despair
the kind that waddles right up to the Romeo's
with suspense in their hearts
and spontaneity in their wings
a cackle
that he can tackle
to take home
to his garden bed
for him to be fed
but what he got
was for not, naught, knot
wistful thinking
sitting in a bar sinking
for the jukebox played a broken record
finding love in the wrong places
and the joke squarely was on him
for thinking, he could round the bases
looking no further than the escape of his glows
or a crutch of decoys
and sitting ducks
for he was no Romeo
yet
there he was still, like steel,
a stole away in society
forlorn, preserved
like mamas mothballs tucked away
in basement storage
squandering the forage
for there were no triple treats
tonight for him
or forever sounds grim
for his reality check gone dim
or
no eye candy
for his heart beats
no picnic
for his ****
and all the bottled whiskey
could not drown out his pain
as his eyes were slain
as the sitting ducks turned
from his fantasy corner
phantomlike
and though
he's sitting at the bar, a loner
reminded that in cards of life
pairs beat singles
and in his worn hand
familiarly holds a lonely joker
for it's like he tries
and its
like his sitting ducks
are like hoofed deer
and his little sweets,
are spooked
hoofing
away from his
now darken forest
like red ants at his picnic
and the gleam in his eyes turned
to the poorest
its
its
as if his life and watering hole
was condemned
his garden bed cut at the stem
it is as if he has a red vest on
and a rifle don
and all the hoofed deer
panic
looking at him in fear
like he's manic
or maybe it's his eyes
that hold dark skies
he orders another double
trouble
for what else is there to do
on his Saturday night
than to sit in a bubble
forever sounds grim
but sing him a sweet hymn
he says please
to wit as he steals peeks
at the bartenders triple treats
like a bee to a hive
his joker still strikes a beat
if only he can find a bolster
for his gun needs a holster
and a deer in the headlights
would be hard to find
the confession now told, tolled, towed
through tears
the guy in the bar window
is me, sitting
resigned

Logan Robertson

10/18/2018

please tell my heart to simmer down
i can’t hear myself think
over all of this noice it’s making.
it bubbles and boils and makes my skin itch with the urge to **** it.
please take my heart away.
i can’t bear the burden of it again.
it feels so heavy, like someone buried it six feet under, but i can still feel it.
it’s like it’s calling out to me from underneath. it wants me to help it
but i can’t. i put it under there myself
and i lost the map

I'm not as self but as something new.

Golfer man and she knew you

But I never knew that she was who

The one who invented the love of you

And now that aside here I am

Squish sardine pressed into a can

The man who wrote the man I knew

Well I gave him away in spite of food

And now the longing for the words I wish

The words that I so dearly Miss

To pull you close was all I ever wanted to do.
Perhaps some sort of kiss but I'm not sure if I even would want to go there.

The feelings of knowing he never actually wanted to meet will slowly fade for my mind wants to never remember your face

An incompatibility known to be true but a type of relationship known to be drawn into

For these are the days I once was wild wild no longer you cease to exist to me

I waited each night,
by the window
in the moonlight,
for you to come home,
and tuck me in tight.
I waited, and waited,
putting up quite a fight,
because I refused
to believe my daddy
would leave me in fright.
Mommy would come in,
and kiss me goodnight.
She would tell me,
my daddy loves me,
but he's not
coming home tonight.
I waited, and waited,
until a quarter
past midnight.
That's when I realized,
mommy was right.

Stupid girl.
Frail and weak.
How easily
you are swayed
by expectations
held so high
over your
*pretty
little
head.

I was 20 years old
when my depression
came back.
It hit me so hard
it knocked me off my feet.
I had 3 years.
3 years of feeling so much,
while sadness lingered
just below the surface.
Waiting,
for the perfect moment
to cut my rope in two.
That rope
was my lifeline.
Now,
the days drag on,
but the nights seem longer.
I gaze out the window,
watching the snow
cover the world outside.
I can't help,
but wonder
if nature is ever
this sad
when all her beauty
is dead
and buried.