(For Andrew)
We watched her sway
in the drizzling rain
to Willie.
Because it seemed
he’d
“written the song just for her.”
She was drunken
stoned and crazy.
The front headlights
captured her dancing
in an almost tragic way,
like a scene
out of a
David Lynch movie.
It was too late to
be so loud.
But it was college.
and we lived in
a college town.
I wondered quietly
how long would
these organically magical moments
continue to happen with us.
~Edward Austin Robertson~
I.
He flew in on Frontier airlines
into Denver.
Frozen Snow on the tarmac
thinking of that time he touched down
into Alaska
to meet up with a college friend
to shoot guns and chase the lights.
He was only a connecting flight
away from seeing his grand plans
come into fruition.
A Plantain farm
somewhere deep in Costa Rica.
The big payoff
for his year of frugality.
II.
He kicked things off on
New Year’s Eve hitching
a ride with a malcontent buddy
down to Oklahoma City
for the Flaming Lips freakout.
The most spectacular show in
his life’s most recent memory.
Though his buddy was far from impressed,
he had a party to attend
and so they parted ways
with a promise
to meet later so
he could collect his booze
and belongings.
And when asked how he was going to get around,
he said ” I’ll figure it out.”
Then he focused his attention
towards the stage and the
performing of the “Soft Bulletin”.
III.
And so the show ended.
He didn’t scramble nor panic
but made a call to someone
he knew that had floor seating,
and caught a ride to a party
in the Paseo district near the
neighborhood where his buddy
would be staying for the night.
He grabbed a drink and ignored
the other drunks and turned
his focus to the dimples
on her adorable face.
The more they talked
polygamy, anarchy, and
Edward Abbey,
the closer their faces got
and the lower their voices dropped
and the crowd around them disappeared.
IV.
Inside her house,
kissing in her doorway,
with his belongings
in the trunk of a cab
the meter running
the departure time nearer
his heart racing.
Slipping his tongue into
the tender and erotic,
hands sweeping across her buns,
her fingers dancing along his waist.
It couldn’t be the end
maybe back in OKC
or a farm in south Texas
but this wasn’t goodbye,
not at 5:30 AM.
Which is why he calmly ignored
the jumping dog pawing at his arms
and the running meter outside
and the bus sitting at the Greyhound station,
the people already boarding.
Because sometimes you just know
when the mojo is in your favor
that everything is running on time
that everything is okay.
She says to him,
“You have to go don’t you?”
and he nods his head yes.
They kiss one final time
before he heads out the door
and out into the
cold Oklahoma streets.
~Edward Austin Robertson~
They stood out on the hostel
balcony
staring out at the sea of lights
in the hills of Alajuela
and neighboring San Jose.
Their paths intersecting
at their trip’s end.
Both he and she
wore tired looks
ready to give up on the day
to start over tomorrow.
He uncorked his bottle of vodka
and spiked his orange juice
in between the jokes and light,
silly conversation.
He kept reminding himself
to avoid the urge to hold on too long
wanting more than the
moment could offer–
to become guilty of squeezing too much
out of the present.
Though there was something endearing about her
fatigue.
She wore it well.
A subtle gracefulness
in the bags under her eyes and
a comfort in being close to her
which slightly hovered
throughout their day together.
At his age
it was inexcusable
to get caught up
in the idealised and romantic notions
he carried throughout his youth.
He knew he was far better off
drinking his screwdriver
and enjoying the waning
moments of his vacation.
To simply be
in the here and now
and just have a good time
for however long it lasted.
~Edward Austin Robertson~
The dread became more
pronounced
the closer
we got to the bus station.
We couldn’t walk slow enough
or fast enough.
Her left hand holding my
right hand.
My left hand holding
my luggage.
Just like that
Robert Johnson song.
I used humor
as a defense
for my sadness,
cracking jokes
at a breakneck
pace.
Not sure if
I’ve ever been
wittier
or sadder.
I kissed her goodbye
thinking it’d be
a matter
of time ‘til
we met again.
I wonder how different
things would be
if I’d have just canceled
my plans
and stayed a while longer……….
maybe we’d have gotten
it out of our system
perhaps I’d have never come
back.
If only I could
visit a parallel
universe
and find out
without
giving up
the lessons
I learned
from my
decision to leave.
~Edward Austin Robertson~
I was minding my own business
watching the Patriots-Colts game.
(Rooting against the Colts)
when she chatted me up.
She looked at me fiercely
told me she was a squirter
and a Scorpio,
48 years old.
She looked like
a poor man’s Shirley
Maclaine.
I told her I had to
be at work in less
than an hour.
But the Pats were up
by 17 with less
than 8 minutes to go,
so I called work and
said I’d be fifteen minutes late.
I instructed her to
pay her tab
and meet me
in the parking lot.
We went back to her
place and
I gave her
the Bobby Mickey
Special
no onions
extra mayonnaise.
Her pussy squirted
like the fountains
at Royals Stadium.
The next day I saw that
the Colts had come back to
win the game,
something about a 4th and 2
on their on 29.
The Patriots went
for it and sealed
their fate.
3 days later
my urethra was sticking
together.
Coach Belichick wasn’t
the only one
who made
a bad call
on Sunday night.
~Edward Austin Robertson~
Make money
Be kind
Be kind
Be kind.
Work harder
and smarter.
Be patient
be gentle
be lovingly aggressive.
Maintain a good sense of humor.
Do the right thing
for the right reasons.
Be conscious of what I ingest.
love my partners
provide higher quality of life
for my offspring that the
one I was afforded.
Be grateful.
be faithful to the moment.
Don’t waste the days.
Don’t chase tail
because that’s all
you’ll wind up with.
Don’t pass up things
you’ll regret not doing.
Vote with your wallet.
Only get drunk when
you’re happy.
Believe in the silver lining.
Have realistic expectations.
Travel.
Appreciate beauty.
Become beauty.
~Edward Austin Robertson~
February
February is always the toughest month of the year for me,
November is no picnic to deal with either.
One signals the beginning of winter
the other signals the end.
Nothing is as it appears in February
the month itself
is an illusion
an anomaly
28 days
sometimes 29.
From the farcical celebration
of Black History
to the fictional Puxatawny Phil.
Valentine’s and President’s Day
rest arbitrarily in relation
to other “holidays.”
I distrust February
so much
that I find
it hard
to trust Aquarians
which includes
me
half
the time.
~Edward Austin Robertson~
Growing up
I fantasized about
being a 70’s porn star.
Why the 70’s?
Bushier beavers
natural looking women
the kind you
see at the grocery store
the kind of woman
who
I actually had a
chance of fucking.
No intrusive
bright lights
fake tits
or runway
strips
where there should be
a mossy forest
of pubes.
I prefer
the texture
of an alfalfa
sprout
sandwich
when I’m
going
down on
a girl.
Kay Parker.
Honey Wilder
Jeanna Fine
Hyapatia Lee
Vanessa Del Rio
Nina Hartley
Juilet “Aunt Peg” Anderson
and Janey Robbins
all women I’d fuck this very
day.
Women who all had distinctive looks
and sexual characteristics.
Not like these carbon
copy actresses
making the same
unimaginative films
They took chances
in the 70’s
good funky
background music
with deep bass grooves
jazzy organ
and swanky guitar licks.
The German
and French flicks
from those days were
even crazier
and more depraved
with their nutty
premises
and wardrobes.
Maybe my
ex-girlfriends
are right,
maybe
I am
addicted
to porn.
Though it
could
be worse.
I could
be addicted to
smack,
or crack.
Edward Austin Robertson
Meg was one of the most attractive women
I’d ever met.
She was stunning
clever
quick
and slightly vicious.
Creativity oozed out her pores.
It was impossible to be
in the same room
and not take notice.
We all were digging her
(even our female roommate
Julie).
She started dating
the mercurial stud of the
house, PJ
but eventually
married
our talented
goofball friend
Gibby.
We were happy for both
of them.
They made each
other better people.
Which was the reason
for my shock
when I got that
call.
One of the worst things
you could imagine
had happened.
I had never gotten
too close
to her
to spare myself
angst.
She was off-limits
and I had this
proclivity
for falling in love
with every
smart and
beautiful
woman I came across
(even if they weren’t
my type).
Now I wish that
I’d had the maturity then
to consciously acknowledge
my attraction
to her
and appreciate
her presence,
then simply move
on to another subject
like normal
adults
do.
It wouldn’t have even
been an issue.
Nothing would
have changed
for anyone involved.
One thing her
passing has taught me
is that no matter
how many times
you suspect
someone has heard it,
it never
hurts to
tell them
how brilliant
you think
they are.
~Edward Austin Robertson~
The construction of destruction
Was walking by a truck
with a bumper sticker
that read” Freedom has a
taste that the protected
will never know.”
Seemed profound.
Until I looked at the driver
and saw that
he couldn’t have been
any older than 50.
Which made me wonder
about the last time
we truly fought for freedom.
Anyone who’s ever
played
Risk
or Axis & Allies
understands the
difficulty
in capturing a
strategic foothold
in this country
of ours.
The only possible
invasion from Mexico
is through the restaurant
kitchens and construction yards
along our borders,
armed with their culinary skills
and mechanical inclination.
From everything
I’d read about Nam
it wasn’t our fight
to begin with.
Often referred to
as unfortunate
and unnecessary.
WWII is arguably
the last real fight
for freedom
involving this great
country,
more about
seizing the role
of superpower
than saving Jews
from the sadistic
Nazi party krauts.
As much as an afterthought
as Lincoln freeing
the slaves?
Imagine the horror
of opening the
daily papers and
seeing the blitzkrieg
gain momentum
capturing Europe
one city at a time.
I was at home
with flu,
lying in bed
during the first
Gulf War Invasion.
I was 12 years old
and my 103 degree
fever
left me wondering
if I’d suffered brain damage.
Surely what
I was watching
on TV wasn’t
real.
I’d had no concept
of real violence
or war and started crying
thinking the
end was near.
That WWIII
was underway
while Peter Jennings
read the names
of the American Allies
off the teleprompter.
The world
was involved
but it wasn’t
in fact
a world war.
It wasn’t
the terror
of seeing missle silos
go up an open
in the 1960’s
in territories
like New Mexico,
Nevada,
west
and north
Texas.
Watching
those
snakey lights
shoot
into
all those
buildings.
Splashes
of fireworks
and volcanic
sparks of energy,
as the reporters
talked of things
that I couldn’t
quite grasp.
It all seems
like
some sick feverish
dream that
never completely
ended.
~Edward Austin Robertson~
Nuclear Polio Vaccination 