Dolls: A Nice Little House

Peter draws a skinny little boy named Tony and puts him in a cell.

Tony is more like his Mother than his Father.

Tony is more like his Mother than his self.

A doll’s eye fades to black.

Tony’s cell is really a nice little house in a forest of pink trees.

These things sometimes happen:

A garden of morning glories never opens.

A dead bee stabs the sole of your foot.

A giant toad leaps on your chest at midnight:

all the months of August in a row.

Rob Goldstein 1985-2019

Dolls: He Calls the Hotline

Bobby has clearly had it.

He calls the hotline:

Bobby: I’m so depressed I don’t know what to do;

Bob: Sounds like you’re feeling depressed.

Bobby: Yeah. I think I’m gonna kill myself.

Bob: Sounds like you’re thinking of suicide.

Bobby: Yeah–My dick fell off in the shower.

Bob:  Sounds like you need to watch what you eat.

–Click buzz—

Bobby is a gash in the arm of God, lost as he segues
to a regrettable death.

“Try not to think about it,” says Bob, “It’s in Robs hands now.”

Rob Goldstein 1985-2019





from Stuart France

Stuart France


From the corner

of my eye…

Through a keyhole…

half seen


Beneath the door…

Behind a crack in the curtains

A shiver of tree leaf

gurgling-silver over brook-stone.

Musical spheres

The beat of wings on high

fractals of sun shimmer.

Moonshine in stone

Soil sparkle

Gem loam

Song under foot…

Flashes and snippets and shade between formless shape.

Part intruder

Part guest

Host of no-where and no-when

Never here always there…

but still



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Blood and Saliva

Eros smiles seductively

and takes the seat next
to mine.

He caresses my thigh

and whispers a filthy

secret: to know him

is telling

in a thousand




(c) Rob Goldstein November 5, 1985