All the chores you put off — clipping your nails, especially the toenails now that there’s no other man in your bed to gripe when they scrape. Like getting tested. At least you don’t have to do that anymore — sure the bed’s maximum occupancy won’t change. The parts of you, physical and ethereal, that might urge you back to the hunt have all been … Continue reading Clipping by Timothy Robbins
My feelings for men reach out from the highest parapet in this oasis of cleansing sin in the heart of this desert Djinn. Not five times a day like the muezzin, not five times but continuously. The raccoons on my desk pay no attention to the flowers in their saintly makeup standing so desperately near. Flowers and coons train their eyes on my kissable Adam’s … Continue reading Update 1 2016 by Timothy Robbins
I laminate bookmarks because I can’t laminate men. Not one bad actor lighting another bad actor’s cigarette in a fake transport plane. Not the stuntman rising from the sand, his parachute opening behind him, framing his safe landing like an O’Keefe canvas. I mark my books because I can’t mark men. Not the astonishing Filipino, maybe named Nathan. Two years of lunch hours visits. He … Continue reading Bookmarks by Timothy Robbins
Although the point is gone (the eye moonlighting on some dollar bill) I know that pyramid (the neighbor’s roof) is mine. Power lines and bluish clouds rush straight at me from the vanishing point, also known as Sam’s Club. The spot where I’m kneeling is sacred now, though yesterday it was a source of great anxiety. One blanket on the sofa and one on the … Continue reading Earlier by Timothy Robbins
after hours of cock-sucking my lips feel like glass two shards of broken bottle dangerous till tides sand their jagged edges I have Superman’s ears I can hear weeds outside the window swaying like legs in the air brushing against cinderblock instead of time I have changes in the light on his skin I slide from his thighs crawl to the coffee table and scribble: … Continue reading Crystal by Timothy Robbins
Ma Rainey, in this picture your teeth take the place of song. The USPS usurped your face when they gave you a stamp. 29 cents. I hear you moan “The 29-Cent Blues.” This stamp is your only haven. Your flesh is an insult to Beyoncé’s muscles. Your tassels are tired mops. Maybe it would be different if you swapped your chipped sepia teeth for the … Continue reading Ma Rainey by Timothy Robbins
I cut the side of my left thumb, a scissor slip as I was patching the sofa. Elizabeth Schwarzkopf in shaky black and white sang, “Drink to me only with thine eyes.” Mike was tête-à-tête with an astrologer online (prophecy steadieth his fears as music doth mine). The thumb bled a little then stopped as though it thought the effort wasted. If I were in … Continue reading The Cut by Timothy Robbins
