The Devil on the Headboard

The Devil on the headboard
he sways and strokes his

He says his girlfriend jacks off
with the faucet in the bathtub

He says she let’s him watch ‘
cause she loves him.

Now he says prey:

“Don’t make it too hard, OK?”

Since nothin’ says lovin’ like
somethin’ in my oven

he makes a mess o’ Bisquicks

as a feather drifts into my
ear and whispers about rock
and world politics.

(C) Rob Goldstein 11/26/1984 -2017

I Am That Child

I am that child who watched in horror
as a policeman shot and killed my

I am that child gunned down
at school; my last words were,
Help me! I don’t want to be here!”

I am that child tortured and beaten
and left in a field to die because
I am gay.

I am that child who listens
fearfully as a rich white lady
on TV says that my life does
not matter.

I am every child who has ever gone to
bed hungry

And cold

And homeless

And illiterate

And sick

Because of the evil of adults who know what
they do.

And If I grow up I will shit on your streets

And feed your prisons

And live as evidence of your contempt for life

And the human spirit

And your bestial need for more.

I am the battered face of your hate.

Look at me!


Art by Rob Goldstein
I Am the Battered Face of Your Hate


Poem and Image (c) Rob Goldstein 2016















The Bus Trip -It’s TAPS in El Paso

Lindas Estas Borracheras
A Night at TAPS


The newest arrival at the Hostel in El Paso is a 35-year-old Aussie named Peter Lapis.

Peter convinced me to a group of dudes at the Ramada Inn to drink brews and cruise chicks.

The other dudes are a German, nicknamed the Viking,  a Brazilian, Miguel, and a Frenchman, Craig.

The thought of going to the Ramada Inn for anything struck me as perverse; the thought of going to cruise chicks and drink brews seemed excessive.

The feeling I had as we made our way through the sleet and wind of El Paso that night was one of camaraderie.

Peter passed me a blunt and the fetters of gay identity and middle age slipped away.

It was Friday night.

We entered the lavishly orange lobby of the downtown Ramada Inn and commandeered an elevator to the bar.

We lined up and ordered our drinks.

The DJ spun “Sexual Healing.”

“I love these musics!” said Craig.

Craig, Miguel and I made a clump at one end of the bar while Peter and
the Viking passionately cruised chicks at the other.

“You like this music?” Miguel asked Craig.

Craig replied, “Oh yes! I love the American 50s! Elvis Presley, Petula Clark,” Craig beamed at me, “Do you like these musics?”

“I love Marvin Gaye,” I said. “But I don’t think Petula Clark was a singer from the American 50’s.”

Craig winked and sipped his beer.

The DJ spun Jingle Bell Rock.

“These is the best musics,” Craig continued, “America’s gift to the World!” he turned to me and raised his glass, “Don’t you think so?”

The beer made me extravagant: “There would be no American musics without the Beatles.” I proclaimed.

“Ah!” Craig raised his glass, “America’s greatest gift!”

The three of us laughed.

Peter Lapis leaned down the bar toward us: “Dudes! Let’s go into Juarez.”

I was game.

“Too cold.” Miguel said.

“I think there is no adventure in this group!” boomed the Viking, “Den we go to Taps.”

We arrived at Taps to the sound of Linda Ronstadt: “PORE UN AMOR!”

“PORR UN AMORRRRR!” sang the drunken crowd.

Peter chose our booth so he could see the waitress who worked the table. “Nice ass.” he said as she left to get our pitcher of beer.

I noticed that what he said was true when she returned with the beer and left with five generous tips.

Pero que bellas paso las horas vaciando botellas


I woke at Noon to the stench of stale beer and beans, and the sight of Peter Lapis as my bunk-mate.

“Don’t drink much, do ya?” Peter asked, as I struggled to lift my head from my pillow.

Throbbing memories of the previous night played themselves out in my mind.

Mariana was the name of the waitress.

Mariana and I danced the Samba until her husband, passed out for most of the night at the table across from ours, awoke.

He did not like what he saw my hips say to his wife.

He swung at me, punched the Viking instead, and an international brawl ensued to the tune of Y Andale.

Mariana begged us to leave before the police arrived.

“PORE UN AMOR!” I sang as the bitter winter winds of El Paso blew across my face.

Peter was responsible for getting me safely to bed.

“Don’t drink much, do ya?” Peter asked.

(c) RG 2016







A Tour of San Francisco in 31/2 Minutes

Surrealist streetshot made with an android cell phone using panaorama feature to create distortion
Vanishing Act

Flickr members Richard Warner and Paul Ewing introduced me to a photographic technique they call Panovision.  They use radical hand and body movements to sabotage the android’s panorama option.

Paul Ewing describes the technique in the Pano-Vision group on Flickr.

Screen shot of Flickr member Paul Ewing that gives an explanation of the use of the panorama option on a cell phone for making abstracts
The technique for making Panovision Abstracts.

The results are shots like these:

Richard S. Warner-On a Hot Summer Day Time and Space are Fluid

On a Hot Summer Day Time and Space are Fluid

Paul Ewing- “Great Lakes Freighter Engine Room”


"Great Lakes Freighter Engine Room"


Or this one by Rob Goldstein – Deconstruction Site


Deconstruction Site

I noticed  a ‘save video’ option on the panorama shots and found the videos as interesting as the still shots so I played with them,  joined them and set them to music.

A Tour of San Francisco in 31/2 Minutes is a selection of Panovision
videos made over the past three months and set to Desert Song
by Dead Can Dance. I dedicate it to Paul Ewing and Richard Warner.