robertsskunk

[robertsskunk]

April Midnights

Why is it only gargantuan trucks that hound the streets on rainy April midnights? We could create so narrative of hard-working men escaping the matriarchal oppression of the home. They’re driving back from drinking in their buddy’s garage.

I walked past an apartment where some black women were having a party. “I’m. Way. To. Fly. For. You.” Led one woman singing. I could see a few people cross the window as she broke it down. Warm light fell from that second story window. There is nothing oppressive here. Nothing restrictive about this home.

I wanted to stand there and look up. Watch the joy and celebration. What makes them laugh? What makes them smile and dance on rainy April midnights? I wanted to climb up to the window and ask her. Maybe they’d invite me into that warm apartment dance. I kept walking forward.

It’s not just trucks on the streets, they’re only the most noticeable. I did notice another car. It was a beater with some piece of machinery screaming as it ran through the wet street. It was loud enough to be heard far before it passed. After the car left sight, I could still hear the cry echoing up and down and off every hill in Omaha.

R.S.S

[robertsskunk]

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The sweet smell of vanilla in an elevator going to the top floor.

The power of a tongue on a lower place.

Quick sex in the back of a car.

Or on a dorm bed before a party.

I have perpetrated innumerous acts of heinous sexuality in front and back seats of cars.

In and around dorm beds I’ve searched for love.

Bending to every whim, beck, and calling.

My reward has only been vanity.

Names on a list in my head.

Numbers counted on fingers.

R.S.S

[robertsskunk]

Lady Bug

4/1/19

Late night epiphanies to be forgotten in the morning.

Laughter and spirt inhabited trees.

A ladybug shell on the floor.

I wanted to give it to her.

I fell in love with someone else to find you.

I see that shell on the floor.

In  it’s orange dried and spotted surface she shines.

 R.S.S

[robertsskunk]

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On the couch we lay in embrace.

It was a terrible place to lay.

The couch never seems large enough to comfortably fit two people.

Although it is much better than my couches, small grey Ikea piece of shit.

Our faces inches away, legs woven, and pressed closely softly together.

We spoke.

I was thinking of pictures.

I saw a flying yellow hang glider over a plateau in Utah.

Next, I saw cartoon eyes.

The eyes of the dwarves in Snow White.

All in black and white, and only the eyes.

I touched your face and saw a lovely doe.

Big amber eyes and a wet black nose.

Finally, I saw a horse made entirely out of hay and mud.

Standing in a stall, throwing its head up and down.

Brown and yellow and Green.

 R.S.S

[robertsskunk]

Good People

Good people sometimes lie.

The devil comes and sneaks in through their eyes’.

Makes them say “I want a cheeseburger.”

When all they wanted was fries.

Makes them look up to the greasy skies and realize angels don’t deserve to fly.

Makes them look real deep within and discover all that’s him.

Makes them think of what they see.

Makes them think of what they’ll be.

Makes them think all they are is a baby trapped in a hot car.

Mother said she’d be back real soon.

The windows magnify the heat.

I need some water, I can’t breathe.

I need some air, I can’t see.

I need out of my car seat.

R.S.S

[robertsskunk]

Bulldog

You look like a bulldog.

Why so sad to see me?

You sound like a record player.

Why don’t you sing for me?

You look like a peacock.

Do you put a face on for me?

Do you care what I see?

You sound like a liar.

Why don’t you love me?

You look like a caged serpent.

Why don’t you stay with me?

You wear pain on your forehead.

Don’t you wanna look at me?

You hold car keys and a suitcase.

What have I done to make you flee?

R.S.S

[robertsskunk]

Untitled

Three AM and sobering up.

The inside of my car; a sanctuary of punk rock music, heat blasting, and cigarette smoke.

I smoked so much it might have been a suicide attempt.

Half a pack and two clove cigars.

The bruises on my neck and the scratches down my back won’t be gone before Christmas.

My last two cigarettes I put out on my left forearm.

Temporary pain and pleasure, but marks of moral indifference that will last several years.

I didn’t think about any other actions of the night, why think now.

The bruises on my neck and scratches down my back will still be there by Christmas anyway.

A fantasy, a high, a bender, only lasts so long.

Eventually you have to wake up and go back to work.

But the bruises don’t leave.

They remain and taunt when you look in the mirror.

“Remember slamming your elbow into the cement floor? That’s where I came from.”

Or “Her Malibu saturated lips and teeth sure felt good on your neck.”

But that wasn’t you, she fucked the guy you want to be.

The guy that’s only around when alcohol pushes practical thought out.

That’s how you really think.

R.S.S.

[robertsskunk]

Spring

We are rockets shooting cross the plains

Born of man and flames.

In our cars blasting through the cool

March night.

Oh, what beauty we must be.

Doggish smiles open up to the wind.

Eyes water from excess tobacco smoke.

We shout obscene philosophical gibberish as out waiter ties to take orders.

Ice cream with a free slice of apple pie.

Burnt black coffee water.

And side of nonsensical ranting about God and film.

Over cooked smiles in outer winter air,

Spring is coming upon our heads.

We let salt tears wash our bare teeth.

This is it,

We have become wildflowers.

So dormant in the snow and ice.

Now we start to bud,

When July comes, we will blossom.

R.S.S