Four Poems, Anthony Robinson

Astoria

Because my heroes were never

my heroes, because to be here

is not to be heroic. To be grounded

like a ship or a big ol' plane can offer

instruction on patience, on waiting

to become. Because poets 

are just like everyone else and offers

are dirty dreams or slightly bright

protuberances. Because magic

is not brown because I am brown

but less than magic here, on this idea

become an ocean. Send more coyotes

because the Peter Iredale has been 

shipwrecked since 1906

and it isn't going anywhere: old

rusty steel will be my coronation.

Parable of the Asterisk

A man uttered a parable about swine and neon, about being prolific, profligate, and prodigal.  He was an apostate and an admirer of long dead thought of the sort once called "wisdom" in the backs of old magazines. It's true that he had used it all up. All of it! Cawed the crows from their perches on the backs of dumber ravens.  All of it! Squealed the swine as they tumbled into the ravine.  All of it! Bleated the goats as they wandered about being goats and then settled back down beneath the bannock trees from which bread fell fortnightly. The man in his mustard-colored robes made stories and dined on scraps. He returned to his point of origin on a regular basis. He paid his parking tickets when he could afford to. People came and went and cows mooed. Oil cans burned and alleys and grass grew over the fields beyond the horizon divided by the last road out of the city. Stubble grew over his face. He whittled a stick. He pushed forward.

Seven Days of Snow

Stop and start and stop again. Very

Full you on snow and agates sample

New artist. When that girl whose 

Husband I cuckolded wrote "I'm

Drinking again" I started listening

To the world, the Earth, Appalachian

Music, again.  The sluice set aside

First snow now 2nd time. I didn't

Fall. The doctors, or physicians 

Because I like to demean them

Keep talking about my fall and I say

What fall. They didn't give me

The good drugs, even. Slices of my

Head, insert blank head emoji. Jah

Wobble's Invaders of the Heart was

A soundtrack amidst anguish palm

Trees and blacktop swapmeets. Got

A good thing going. Things as things.

Thingness is mostly the sky and shy

Dromedaries which is why we 

Have Hump Day. Stopped. Drink

Ing. Started drinking again, stay

And start stunning again. Stinking mama,

Was I not good looking enough. Tried

To explain gaslighting. She said you're

Anything crazy. Ham hocks and beans

And Jiffy Cornbread. My God you gotta

Be. HaShem snow world to be 

So we be shady? So we fall down? I guess

We fall under sharks. We begin with

Fucking sandwiches from Cuba. I need

Something else. I need more of a test.

Ashes, ashes.

On Looking at Some Chinese Poets

Some poets sing

About the heaven and earth 

To me they are

Always and only

The ground and the sky

And me, I'm tired of living

And my voice is hoarse

From constant appeals 

To the empty sky

Clouds are made of water

But insubstantial 

A paler version

Of the horrible sea

And my arms are tired

From all this pointless

Rowing so I stand now

On this middle ground

Dark earth not firm 

And I lift my tired arms

Dig in my faithless heels

And get to work

Anthony Robinson lives and writes in rural Oregon. His poems have appeared in The Brooklyn Rail, Iowa Review, The Laurel Review, Court Green, Verse, and elsewhere. His first full-length book will be published in Spring 2023 by Canarium Books.