He Said, He Said

He called like he usually did, his voice sexy and deep, not hysterical, which
he can sometimes get when something’s on his mind, something I have to
ferret out , burying my muzzle in the shit of his psyche.

He said we couldn’t have dinner, that he was broke and, ‘some people have
to work,’ implying something about my life.

He said that I was fine, but, ‘a little too much’ and wondered if I wouldn’t
be happier with someone more complex, more my ‘speed.’

And I said no! No! Simplicity is my goal, what can I be?  What would you
like me to be?

“Nothing.” he said, and hung up.

He Said, He Said

Excerpt from a poetry reading with Harold Norse, 1986.

(c) Rob Goldstein 1986-2017 All Rights Reserved

Ebbing with lessening

from the Feathered Sleep

TheFeatheredSleep

There are rumors

Spiked by moonshine

Privilege or disgrace

Oppression spells her full name

For the Zweig suicide guest book

A librato place

No-one can follow

Without revealing their intention

Take comfort

From people who do not care

They lacquer their unteathering

In pretty boxes with false bases

As Houdini shone the key beneath the deep

So they perfect stillness in powdered sugar

Salvaging nothing of the wreck

As salt stained and barnacled

Driftwood is recovered by shore

Ebbing with lessening

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Caravaggio Dreams

from Poet Rummager

Poet Rummager

LC-Caravaggio_Ursula Caravaggio’s last painting – The Martyrdom of Saint Ursula 1610


Ah, Caravaggio, you come to me in a dream.

We both hold on to the darkness –
painting canvases seeped in sanguine.

Red is the color of my cheeks
as I blush when our finger tips brush.

Do you not see what I’ve buried deep,
has dug itself out to find me?

Feel how my fears quake
as the waking sun’s rays illuminate.

It’s light that blinds,
yet all the while pretends to mend.

I clutch fast to the shadows
and nod in acquiescence.

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*Michelangelo Amerighi da Caravaggio is considered to be the greatest Italian painter of the Seventeenth Century. Arrogant, hot-headed, and extremely talented, he would cause turbulence wherever he would go. It is said that his last painting, The Martyrdom of Saint Ursula, was painted while Caravaggio bled from a deep wound to his face. A vengeful…

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I Live in Your Grave

Emptiness: a beginning and we are at war. That night we entered your womb; a deformed thing joined at the head: we would spit on you but you are dead and now I must drag your body; you are dead and I must sever your carcass from my skull.

Emptiness: an ending and I am your hostage; strapped to my seat, fearful, sweating, and terrified that I’m next.

Does this ecstasy of death include me?

I am death’s hostage; why does she ask me to join her when she cannot
say she wants me: when she will not give me the value of my life!

Who tallies the value of my life if not she?

Who is responsible for this relentless self-loathing?

You tell me I must love you as hatred seeps from your spirit into mine.

The pursuit of emptiness begins with the fabrication of a perfect lie,
honed to truth, and brutal in its deceptive honesty.

I must bear the humiliation of kneeling to beastliness.

Words and Text (c)Rob Goldstein 2017 All Rights Reserved
 

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