1
My pen was carved from
the mandible of a man-
eating spider, the femur of
Amelia Earhart, or, worst of all
just stupid fucking plastic.
__________
2
The scattered guts of plundered clocks
this latter-day offal we turn to magic
woven gears into your hair—let’s—let’s—
let’s just…ugh. Cumple.
__________
3
crouched in the mouth of a beached whale
pearly little sea-things cling like hickeys
only, well, these ones are inside. a hickey
felt deeper. sand toggles my grim-switch
(in my buttcrack) sticks on hairs like grass
for a ladybug. six little legs (grains) meet
ass-end analogue to fuzz of the pubis, curls
of my pubic patch: akin to helix which
defines us. self a slew of proteins hung like
underoos to air-dry on this “ladder,” “spiral”
__________
4
listen:
my self-obsession is the reason
the sun rose this morning
it occasions tsunami, the nod
and sway of roses and earthquakes.
__________
5
;on sidewalks blacktop
there’s no softness—
in a swept-up shuffle of condom
wrappers, leaf crumbs, cigarette
butts and bugs and dirt—a halo
grows in violent light until this
angelic corruption of the routine
chokes off foot traffic—be still, ye
racing pounding flow of tromping
dead-eyed humanity; regard the
holy junky as his nod becomes
the buddha!
_________
6
this opalescent day begins: as redwood shake
embeds the city trees the NSA gives cotton bedding
to our thoughts and nude pix
____________________
Ross Robbins is a poet living in Portland, Oregon. His work has appeared in HOUSEFIRE, Sound Literary Magazine, and BlazeVOX. You can visit him at rossrobbinspoetry.tumblr.com, and more of his work is available at inknode.com.