Rob plath (Colours of Love and Barriers)

Rob plath is not yet under the jurisdiction of the worms. see more of his work at robplath.com

my butterflies rise from yr grave each year

6 months after

my cousin died

at 25

from an overdose

my father got off the phone

w/ my aunt

& i overheard my him

ask my mother

why is she still crying?

it’s 6 months already…

my father had stooped

to an all time low

& i knew it wasn’t

the idea of drugs

that made him

into an even colder

mo**erf**ker

it was my cousin’s sexuality

& at that moment

i wanted to jab my father

w/ a hot shot

but i knew the needle

would snap from its barrel

when it met

the terrible fu**ing ice

of which my father was made

just to show you

i would split

open my skin

tear out my insides

tattoo each organ

a kaleidoscopic color

& juggle them in front

of the entire world 

a swirling glistening rainbow

appearing above our heads

just to show you

how much i am

on yr side

---

Colours of Love :: Setu, July 2022

Poetry: Rob Plath

going over poems during lunch w/ ginsberg 

sitting there at the table

poems sprawled out on surface

he’s eating a cup of plain green peas

& sipping orange juice out

of a washed out peanut jar w/ the blue cover next to it

“why a peanut butter jar?” i ask

“is there some story behind it?“

“oh no,” he laughs

“it’s free & has a cover”

“that’s it,” he replies

—————————————————-

ghosts in the lungs 

red wine spilled down

the front of my white t-shirt

like a ruby blood stain

drunk in allen ginsberg’s party in his

lower east side apartment in may 1995

i keep reciting baudelaire’s prose poem

“get drunk!” over & over

ginsberg laughs

“that’s pretty good”

& adds, “baudelaire’s breath is in yr pulmonary system”

i smile & begin again

“one must always be drunk!”

———————————————————-

in allen ginsberg’s office, brooklyn 

“what will you do for money?” he asks

“you know you can’t survive on poems,” he warns

“i’ll become a thief!” i shout

“ha! that’s good ! i like that!” he laughs

————————————————————

in allen ginsberg’s kitchen at 1 am

he’s standing in front of the window

when i reluctantly ask,

“do you believe in god?”

he gazes back in silence

“it’s all bulllllllllllshit!” he laughs

his pointer finger slicing up thru the air

to accentuate his statement

the moon outside the dark blue window looking like it’s balanced

on the tip of his digit

———————————————————

literary chat w/ ginsberg

what does “with yr eyes of rotten mandolins”

mean in “kaddish?” i ask

“i’m curious about the meaning behind it” i add

“i don’t know,” he replies, laughing

“it’s actually a line i should’ve cut out of the poem” he says

& shrugs

---

BIO: Rob Plath is a writer from New York. He was once tutored by Allen GInsberg for two years from 1995-1997. He has published 22 books and a ton of poems in the small presses over the last 26 years. He lives with his cat and tries his best to stay out of trouble.

---

Setu, April 2022

Author of the Month: Rob Plath

things i might’ve missed if i didn’t have insomnia this week 

i might’ve missed placing my hand on my whimpering cat & waking her from a bad dream & her blinking at me three times & curling up closer to my leg 

i might’ve missed re-reading these lines from  the rubaiyat of omar khayyám: “i need a jug of wine & a book of poetry / half a loaf for a bite to eat / then you & i, seated in a deserted spot / will have more wealth than a sultan’s realm...” 

i might’ve missed stubbing my toe & suddenly thinking of you coming to visit me after midnight & kissing me & kneeling to untie my combat boots, laughing how i’d sleep in them if it wasn’t for you

i might’ve missed the rapture of that chocolate chip cookie in the dark kitchen

i might’ve missed getting nostalgic & watching clips of the johnny carson show & laughing at johnny laugh at robin williams’ frenetic madness 

i might’ve missed the moonlight projecting the maple boughs across the walls like bare nerve cell shadow puppets 

i might’ve missed having gratitude for how the night unsharpens the edges of things & rounds out the world 

i might’ve missed the simple excitement anticipating sourdough toast & a cup of earl grey in the morning 

i might’ve missed the beating of my heart, lonely as it may be, & the ease w/ which it opened & closed at such an hour

***

inside-out 

did you ever convince yrself 

someone long gone 

waits for you to come home?

so the day is not a bucket of lead 

& yr knees don’t buckle? 

did you ever convince yrself 

somebody long gone 

waits for you? 

so when you get into yr car 

the tar isn’t just one long 

stretch of terror? 

the moon not some 

mocking lidless eye? 

did you ever convince yrself 

someone long gone 

waits for you at home? 

someone sitting w/ knees 

sweetly pulled up 

in yr favorite chair 

smiling in the warm 

yellow glow of a lamp? 

fresh gardenias in water 

on the table? 

did you ever in yr mind 

lift the body of a ghost up over 

its own shape like a dress 

& pull it back down inside-out 

so it’s flesh & bone again 

b/c you want to race home? 

even if it’s just one more time? 

did you ever stoop 

to such foolishness? 

such utterly desperate measures

just so you could race home?

***

eating alone in my own little blue kitchen 

(for my mother) 

you always seemed to be chopping garlic 

or onions on yr long-gone mother’s wooden paddle-shaped bread board in yr yellow kitchen 

today i wonder as i prepare red lentil soup 

how much grief was in yr own grip 

in the pressure of yr fingertips against palm-flesh 

in the heart-strike in the ball of yr thumb pressing against the handle of the knife 

how much absence played a role in the rise

& fall of the blade 

how much ghosts really feed those who are lucky enough to be seated at the table 

to feast & be present

***

haiku from hell 

my damn heart chakra 

is a .38 slug hole 

full of bloody pus

***

---

BIO: Rob Plath is a writer from New York. He was once tutored by Allen GInsberg for two years from 1995-1997. He has published 22 books and a ton of poems in the small presses over the last 26 years. He lives with his cat and tries his best to stay out of trouble.

---

Setu October 2021

Poetry: Rob Plath

lone rose fist

i had a dream my heart was on the opposite side of the room glowing red in the pitch dark. it even spoke as it floated there breaking it to me that it had to vacate my chest. “how am i still alive?” i asked, expecting to suddenly collapse. “you’ll be okay w/out me,” it consoled. “you’ll live,” it added but i just stared at it hanging there like a lone rose fist two arm lengths away & i was so sad that my heart had moved out that i awoke weeping & hugged myself knowing it had returned to my body...

my demons

i know those
terrible bastards
like the backs
of my hands

in fact, they are
the backs
& palms
& fingers too
etc..

& when they’re not
clawing at
my f*ing windpipe

they’re helping
type the goddamn
poems

like now

rad,
demons...

enjoy yr spread under the sun while you can, sons-of-bitches

on
the
flipside
of
the
dirt

the
maggots
eavesdrop
on
yr
picnic

snickering
&
drooling
over
the
day
you’ll
make
the
six
foot
descent

a
large
dark
wooden
basket
full
of
cadaver
sandwiches

upon
their
black
uncheckered
blanket

death machine

father, why did you pass on to me
this death machine?
when i was in rapture couch surfing
in the wilderness of heaven
visiting star after star
napping upon the brims of their twinkling hats?
father, why did you signal for the terrible hook
to disturb my silver sleep
& have me stuffed in this heavy death machine?
now i am nothing but gears that grind
year after year
rusting from tears & daydreaming
of my old blue homeland

---

BIO: Rob Plath is a writer from New York. He was once tutored by Allen GInsberg for two years from 1995-1997. He has published 22 books and a ton of poems in the small presses over the last 26 years. He lives with his cat and tries his best to stay out of trouble.

Setu, January 2020