Anthony Robinson


Fortunately Gone, This Much Given


Two decades time erases precisely nothing

Waiting assumes a form


First snow of the old year & a small girl, purple Gore-Tex, penciled-in dog left-hand corner;

all the pretty things are taking up space around the corners of those mouths

open hijacked agape

at delphinium              bundled in banners                              smokestacks jettisoned

& three dictators died this weekend


O  loving used to be                "I wait for you"


Would it be presumptuous to re-title this series "Beatitudes"?

On this, the first evening of the Festival of Lights

                                                                                    <plaster, hinge, zinc oxide>

Geriatrics have been released from their lairs.

Courageous tweet is not necessarily the same thing as outrageous tweet.


Baruch atah adonai.


"A city of candles."



 Journaling as Self-Sabotaging Subterfuge


I once liked a boy because he was notational • falling off is not a plunge but a sort of leveling out •

black is the new forty •  statements of fact are usually steeped in sentiment •  turn around


Catalog of today's best birds:

            a couple dozen juncos

            a very large very black very startled raven

            four fat hens foraging for seed upon a mound of earth


To all the girls I've loved before:  I didn't really. I only loved you after, actually.


"After, Actually"  it's either a new book of "linguistically disjunctive" poems or a romantic comedy.


Over 20 years my spelling has worsened & I've accumulated too many things with cords.


What do they say?  Chop wood?  Check.  Carry water?  Not yet.


Here is where a gorgeous, lyrical passage is supposed to go:




Here is where it ends.    The rest is what they call "white space."




Your Face Is a Glaring Inconsistency


Let's all go to the lobby as I've become a smart phone
baling hay into an empty space once called San Joaquin

California wasn't made to be my muse but I like things
cracked as I am a fisher of men

Fandom tries hard to blink but speaks Spanish down the corridor
until some fractured nanny makes it stop.


Let's play Family Feud.   Survey says

give up.


Stacey's gaze is a thousand credit cards through staggering fog, a key-chain flashlight.


This coast is a geographical anchor.  


I do not understand my God—I only hope he makes it back.


Survey says

a clean shot.


I love you but I can't do both.  The Fibonacci keeps increasing & your face fills the frame with gray-scale pixels, past recognition, discarding visual cues we must go on breath.   Air here is thin.


The woman leaned in & whispered,
"I no longer truck in dead-tree media."

Hold on a sec while I print that out.