Comments Posted By Robyn

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fishnets. held onto her like prison bars, conforming to her body, reminded her of a hostage situation;
she stood up to dance, to fake it, but her ankle collapsed under the weight of her distress; not quite on the chair, not quite on the floor.

» Posted By robyn On 06.19.2011 @ 4:14 pm


What is Belief? Is it something as large as religon? As small as believing the truth? Or is it something so realistic, no one can answer it?

» Posted By Robyn On 06.19.2011 @ 7:30 am

I’m forever asked, ‘What’s your belief?’ My response is always the same, ‘Pure Happiness’. I’m always told that it’s not a belief but a stupid wish. My response to that is the same too, ‘Wishes are a belief too’

» Posted By Robyn On 06.18.2011 @ 12:51 pm


I wanted you to take me in awe, I wanted your sheer beauty to strike me down, I wanted to be blinded by wonder, I wanted–something. Something in your trees and forests that reflected my inner thoughts, to let me know, in some strange way, I am not alone;
you were supposed to be more beautiful than this.

» Posted By robyn On 06.17.2011 @ 4:48 pm


call you up in the middle of the morning, i think you’re in a meeting, i can hear the secretary passing you the phone, i can hear the way she tells you that’s its me, my name has become a bad word. you say, ‘I hate when things turn into bruises,’ and hang up.

» Posted By robyn On 06.15.2011 @ 5:21 pm

I sat staring at the train. How it moves. Like a thought. Entering your mind and leaving as soon as it’s full. The likeness in my mind seemed endleI got up and left. My train of thought was too confusing.

» Posted By Robyn On 06.15.2011 @ 1:07 pm


The girl sighed as she looked around her room. This would be her last chance to see everything. From her toys, to her clothes, to her paintings. Her belove items.

» Posted By Robyn On 06.13.2011 @ 11:05 am


I like to know
I like to think
that they are everywhere;
those poets, that you see, sometimes, on the streets, trying to be incognito, but looking a little too long at the funeral procession going by, and you can see in their head, their translucent fishbowl head, they can’t help but think of everything at once.
poets, to me, are too close to psychics.
one look at you and they’ve found your whole life story, they’ve found a new one for you that isn’t exactly right, but it’s closer than you’re willing to admit, there are parallels, there’s some foreshadowing and motifs, and I wonder about them, sometimes, if it’s just a bad habit or a curse, the way they compulsively construct stories like detectives or hoarders or
more truly
old men. old men who know everything because they’ve seen everything. old men who’ve worked on the atom bomb, who knew hitler as a child. who still cling to the names of small-time wars nobody else can recall; there is a Wal-Mart instead of a plaque on the battlefield, because in all honesty, their heart-wrenching life-changing gun-fire is too unimpressive by today’s standards, of whole cities gone and lost because of the proud man trying to prove his point.
I hope there is a special place in heaven for poets; a place where, finally, they can see everything at once;
for the first time,
they can feel peace.

» Posted By robyn On 06.11.2011 @ 3:16 pm

funeral director.
her name is Heather.
three funerals in a month;
she knows me quite well now.
she tells me: “yes, this is how they are nowadays, people are moving away from the processions.”
i can’t help but think of weddings.

» Posted By robyn On 06.11.2011 @ 3:01 pm

and another thing: and when
did the definition
of being alive
involve being welcome?

X’s on the back of her hands from last night, from a funeral, one of those new-age ones the hipsters hold, where they have an open bar like it’s a wedding, because crazy, to them, is being still.

twenty-second birthday for the girl, goes to a topless bar, gets one free drink for her good looks, another for choosing them on her special day. it’s a set-up like a joke but there comes no punchline; she goes home with a man she doesn’t know, has sex she doesn’t much enjoy, picks up her car from the parking lot of the bar in the morning, finds some kids have tagged her windshield. Sout Side, it says, missing a T. but at least
despite the annoyance and her lingering pain
at least
makes her smile.

» Posted By robyn On 06.11.2011 @ 2:59 pm


I sat there glaring at the sky. My eyes looked bleakly at the rising sun. I swore. If my mother had heard she’d be disapointed. I sighed, this is my last chance to see the beautious sun rise.

» Posted By Robyn On 06.11.2011 @ 4:21 am


teachers influence the world. they impress their knowledge and given knowledge upon others. they give others their future the minute a student steps into a classroom. they never tire. ever-patient. always giving. teachers make the world what it is.

» Posted By Robyn On 06.09.2011 @ 7:11 pm


“I always wanted a daughter named Ellie.”
a man reading my nametag at the liquor store, as I’m ringing up his beers. it catches me by surprise; I say nothing; just keep my hands moving.
“There’s always adoption.” I’m not paying attention to what I’m saying, and I’m not sure that came across as politely as I intended it to. He winces.

» Posted By robyn On 06.08.2011 @ 12:16 pm


oh, but you’d never catch her with the radio on. washing her hands with her eyes half closed, rings still on her fingers, wet. she got a call one day: “talk me down the mountain.” it was from a wrong number but she talked to the man all the same. she was a stranger and a mis-dialed telephone number and so of course she did not know the words that might’ve saved him; he put the receiver down by the radio. she did not hear the gunshot just then but she heard about it later, neighbors, police, asking, you were on the wire with him at the time, why?

but really, it was no big change for her, this constant silence emitted from her stereo: she had never listened to the radio anyway.

» Posted By robyn On 06.03.2011 @ 4:23 pm


and you’re too busy thinking about how nice it is that he said “fuck with” instead of just “fuck” to be concerned about the fact that he’s talking about fucking with hookers for free, and you’re wanting to say, just how silly that is, if you want free sex, don’t you pick up ladies in the bars? and you’re so distracted waiting for your turn in the conversation to say this that you don’t realize how fucked up this situation is, (and it is fucked up) and that maybe you don’t want the ring of a guy who still packs with backpacks instead of suitcases, and when you do come to realize this, you think, well, I’m sure it’s only fucked up for me, and not everybody else, and you’re right, because when all other girls were sneaking cigarettes, you were stealing your mother’s ‘dieters’ drinks’ teas, because, well, your momma was a smoker too, and her face is damn ugly, and you have her genes, and you don’t want to take that risk

» Posted By robyn On 06.01.2011 @ 7:23 pm


and so it was that she began to laugh without realizing it; slowly and quietly, at first, a shaking of the shoulders–

» Posted By robyn On 05.30.2011 @ 7:17 pm


she grew up as the daughter of a gypsy and a mechanic, something rather cliche; something that she lied about, later in life: said she was born in the suburbs, to a father who hadn’t had sideburns since his junior year of high school. she grew from catty to katie to kathy to catherine, she changed herself so fast the teachers never knew what to call her; for the one night she was a stripper she went by kitty. she laughed so hard introducing herself that she felt her belly bursting in, thought for a moment she might implode, that her trail ended right then and there, that she would die like the stars do, a burst of light from within. that night was years ago.

» Posted By robyn On 05.29.2011 @ 3:16 pm


She sang lullabies to children she hardly knew, sitting on the top of the slide in the playground. They grew used to her there, after a while, the old lady with a pretty voice; they would dare each other to go and steal mints from her purse (was she blind? was she ill?) until one day, she stood up, slowly; and the children scattered away like crows.

» Posted By robyn On 05.28.2011 @ 9:40 am

she slipped a mint under her tongue, not so much as a testament to her belief that she could hide the scent of scotch, but to at least find some mild comfort in an old habit.

» Posted By robyn On 05.27.2011 @ 2:18 pm


play the music loud, keep your head low, walk tightly. don’t flail your legs around like you sometimes do; people will notice here. keep your steps short, pretend your legs are sticks, and sticks do not bend. sticks only move straight. keep your toes pointed at the person you’re talking to. body language. that matters. don’t cross your arms, don’t fidget with your hands too much. cross your legs at the ankles, don’t put one leg over your thigh. better yet, remember that they’re sticks: broken sticks bend in only one place. it’s okay to bend at the knee, but keep your legs straight, thighs flat against the chair, calves going straight down. you can do this.

» Posted By robyn On 05.26.2011 @ 7:47 pm


in the end, she began to confuse stress for love.

» Posted By robyn On 05.24.2011 @ 10:09 am

He was a dirty, filthy thief. His eyes black like the middle of the sun, he stole what was most precious to humankind; women’s hearts. He wanted none other than their infinite love, his to keep forever. He never wished for them to be happy, or for him to love them back; only to hold their hearts for eternity.

» Posted By Robyn On 05.23.2011 @ 8:07 pm

she said, boy, you’re a thief.
and instead, he simply laughed;
smiled at the ground as she exhaled something close to resolve,
and when he began to walk, she did not follow.

» Posted By robyn On 05.23.2011 @ 5:24 pm


Nothing is worse than to be the forgotten memory in his mind. I was his first love, he couldn’t possibly forget, its inconceivable..or is it? It is possible I overestimated my effects on his heart? Is it possible I could become just another brick in the wall of his past, eroded and worn down. Is it possible?

» Posted By Robyn On 05.16.2011 @ 10:11 am

so unlike you, I would’ve thought, to forget; did you ever learn your mother’s birthday? I will never teach you mine, I am too afraid.

» Posted By robyn On 05.15.2011 @ 11:50 am


The drink that makes all the realities in the world appear clear. As your vision blurs the truth seems to step straight, the world realigns. It tastes like truth, pure truth. Things you regret are just your deepest desires manifested in your actions.

» Posted By Robyn On 05.14.2011 @ 8:18 pm


we are all deserts at birth.

she knew simplicity. she said her life was ruined the moment she began breathing, or maybe before then, in the womb, when her brain stumbles into its first moments of functioning with no celebration, no ceremony, no notice; the way she wanted her birth.
she had only wanted to become a wasteland, an emptiness, a blankness that was physical and could envelop her body wholly;
she wrote her epitaph when she was seven:

I’ll miss the sunflower seeds.

» Posted By robyn On 05.13.2011 @ 6:10 pm


it was that night he had created the habit of deep thinking. condensing books into filaments, nothing could be fast enough.

» Posted By robyn On 05.10.2011 @ 12:21 pm


how am i supposed to function without you?

» Posted By robyn On 05.09.2011 @ 12:37 pm


I waver the right to freedom by becoming a mom. I love the bondage of servitude I feel when raising my sons. I’m so proud of the accomplishments each of them have made. I wish they all lived closer. I thank God for rewarding me with Justin, Cody, and Chase! I think motherhood is the greatest honor in the world. Amen to all mothers who love their kids.

» Posted By robyn On 05.08.2011 @ 6:32 am

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