Robert van Vliet


A pendulum in your head and a heart
that feeds off the moss on the toppled
trees Waking up and your eyes
are green Far-flung wishes
for the morning for the wind
that kicks you in the eye
Cough your emptied lungs to peace
You cannot speak So cough The wind
will kick you and tug the clouds

The Past

do I remember
what I

or do I
keep telling

the same things
over and

until I think
they really

The Future

I never had that dream
I only found it later Behind
the water Under the morning

And when I examined it
I found the dream wasn’t
a dream at all but

a small child hiding
in a crate It begged me
not to let it out

Reality Show

A lonesome death tasting
more of sugar and
ozone than of the
mossy dust we were
expecting from the reports

The peculiar tang of
finality But so vague
So artificial So contrived
Look at me Look
at me Look And
we wave as if
anyone is watching No

one is watching They’re
too busy waving The
loneliness torments us We
drive sharp things under
our fingernails Tears burning
in our eyes But
it’s in the script
We don’t even have
the strength to say

we’re sad that the
old goat is dead
Maybe we could cope
with that But it’s the
realization that we
still pretend that he’s
behind the curtain So

unbearable We hate the
bastards who told us
the news But we
brought it ourselves We
opened the door to
the night’s dead face
and whispered it And
the real world vanished

Robert van Vliet lives in Minneapolis. His poems have appeared in the Sixth Chamber Review, Otata, Haikuniverse, and elsewhere in Otoliths. You can find him online at robertvanvliet.com.
previous page     contents     next page


Post a Comment

<< Home