Two Poems by Rob Plath

might

i might see spring as a charlatan
but still i plant flowers in may
chinese lanterns & morning glories
beneath the beige chipped shingles
& the gray cracked foundation
outside my tiny apartment

i might see the sun as a giant zippo
under our flimsy flesh britches
but still i walk about & light cigarettes
& flirt w/the flames by blowing smoke
back at its towering lethal tongue

i might see silence as the only real language
but still i humbly mumble these lines
to the landscape & to any creatures
within ear shot in order to gently break
the lonely lull

the worst kind of junky

there are junkies
of all kinds

but the worst
by far
is the junky
of beauty

while the fiery sea
of agony
surrounds them
swallowing their
fellow man
they do not see
beyond their
hypodermic needle-binoculars
that focus only
upon beauty

they push the plunger
& inject
a sunset
a starry sky
a tree
a waterfall
into their eyes

& their rods & cones
quit trembling
from the fix

& their eyeballs roll
back inside their
skull
& they sigh

overlooking the millions
of blistering, charred hands
reaching up
out of
the flames