We will make eye contact through the cigarette smoke sometime between Mamma Tried and I walk the Line. Something about the short shorts, save a horse, ride a cowboy t-shirt… and boots that will make you stand out. It will take awhile, a few more drinks, maybe a few more shots, but you will ask me to dance and at last call we will leave doing the Laverne and Shirley dance down the sidewalk and end up at your place. Without a bunch of small talk but with another shot of tequila we will have some hot shooting out the lights sex and pass out. I will wake up in the morning, head pounding, see the sheet twisted around your long leg, briefly study the curve in your back, and find my pants before I need to recall your name. I will leave boots in hand, ride the high lonesome back home and wonder if this is all there is.
there is something comforting
about the rain
it stops the world
from spinning too fast
it is being a child again
squishing mud between toes
i sit on this tin roof porch
listen as it slows
reminds of the first
time skinny dipping
and it started to rain
makes me want to dance
born again naked before it stops
if i was younger and
Have you ever tried Six Sentences? Click here to see my first.
Try your hand at these. You never know when it might turn up as a challenge. What can you say in Six Sentences?
While looking over William Taylor Jr’s web site one afternoon I came across some pictures of Taylor and Christopher Robin. There was not an explanation in the caption, but I figured they must be friends. I came upon his name on other sites as well. It kept popping up but still held the mystique of something transparent as he is not widespread on the internet. In my correspondance with Taylor, he mentioned Christopher Robin. He said, if you like my stuff, you’ll like his. Good enough for me– maybe an interview. Bill Taylor also said Chris was an undiscovered gem. I couldn’t find any contact info on him except a PO Box. Who the hell writes anymore?
Answer: Christopher Robin.
…………………………………………………………………..(Photo by Joe Pachinko)
I ordered Freaky Mumbler’s Manifesto from LuLu and when it arrived I gave it a quick read. Oh shit—not like Taylors’s stuff at all. Not better, nor worse–something different. It is 97 pages of poetry that you cross the street or turn your head to avoid when walking the dog. It is honest, raw, a bit raunchy, and from the heart, just the way Robin has lived it. Like he says, he writes for himself, to provide a bit of clarity to this messed up world. It was good stuff, so good I ordered his chap, Angleflies in My Idiot Soup from platonic3waypress.com and I wasn’t disappointed with that selection either. I would also recommend Zen Baby. For a couple of bucks and it is worth every penny and then some Christopher Robin will mail you a copy. If you like send Chris a little extra to keep you from feeling like cheap ass.
Christopher Robin has been invisible to all except his friends and maybe he prefers it that way, but I think he has something to say.
If Hipster’s Were Garbage Men by Christopher Robin
I would be one
if they had been given lobotomies
I would be one
if they were unsure of their next dime,
never graduated from college, had no resume,
I would be a hipster instead of a mumbly-headed American douchebag
with bad tattoos-
they throw their black hoodys onto their front lawns
their cd’s and their books,
in their semi-bad neighborhoods
where they drink beer on their crumbling front porches &
I move in for the kill…..
I am the king of cool then, on my yellow bike, selling their books
and wearing their clothes
I even have pictures of hipsters I have never met
on my fridge
I get them from garage sales
they throw away their lives like
they throw away their philosophy books-
they are college kids
and philosophies don’t last forever
sometimes I buy their bad art for 50 cents or a dollar
because I feel sorry for them
they gave up their art dreams way too early
but they are over it, they don’t care!
they’re headed for austin or san francisco
or l.a. tomorrow anyway
in their tiny compact cars
they’ll find another bad neighborhood-
unlike some of us, they don’t have to live in one forever
they come to my flea market spot on Saturdays, (not till afternoon of course!)
they like to buy 80’s records-
it makes them feel ironic
“dude, this is so bad, what if we like collected all this music
just cuz it was bad?”
I sell their books right back to them,
after rescuing them from the sprinklers,
camus, kerouac, orwell,
all in excellent condition-
and I’m sure I will do this more than once
because I am the garbage man of hipsters
that is my job.
Scot: You are a poet and a publisher. Which do you find the most satisfying?
Chris: As a poet I am only writing for myself, and it’s more satisfying in the way that I don’t put a lot of expectations into the finished product, no deadlines and nobody to please. Publishing zines and chaps is really the opposite; it’s my own creativity, ultimately, but so many other people are in my head. A lot of editors have told me the same thing, it’s hard to know what to give your energy to in the course of a day, especially if you have very little of it, energy, that is, which I often do.
Scot: How many chaps do you have out? Which one is your favorite?
Chris: I have three chapbooks, Who Will Pay the Royalties for the Voices in My Head,Freaky Mumbler’s Manifesto, which I published on Lulu last year, and the recent, Angelflies in My Idiotsoup from Platonic3Way Press. My first book, which came out in 1999 will always be my favorite, mainly for sentimental reasons. The first edition was typed and laid out on an old word processor, created long distance (over the phone) by a very good friend of mine who was also surviving on disability; and each book was hand sewn and stapled by her, 200 copies total. She believed in me and it really meant a lot to me that someone wanted to help me get my writing out.
Scot: Your friend William Taylor Jr. gets a lot of his material from the streets and bars of SF, where does yours come from?
Chris: I don’t hang out in bars too much these days, unless I’m looking for William Taylor, Jr, but like him I do spend a lot of time in my own neighborhoods, walking aimlessly and talking to the unfortunates, and I am one, but I don’t meet as many prostitutes as he seems to (at 3 a.m.). Nowadays I don’t write as much about the streets because I no longer live on them. My inspiration might come from stealing fruit from trees in the summer time, the end of the world, politics, my crazy friends, poverty, being a throw-away poet on ssi, synchronicity found around every corner, the magic of the everyday, the list goes on.
Scot: Why do you write?
Chris: for my own clarity, the process of writing distills things for me, maybe I can be in the world a little easier once I’ve broken it down, it clears my head and helps me take the world and my own problems less seriously. I’d like to be able to break it all down into very short, tight sentences, but I’m not there yet.
Scot: Unlike a lot of today’s poets, there is not much of Christopher Robin on the internet. Is this by design or failure to market?
Chris: Well, because of a certain cartoon character who spends a lot of time trying to steal my identity, you’d have to search pretty specifically. There’s a bit on my zine, Zen Baby, a lot of reviews over the years, (though there was another book that came out with the same title, after I started publishing); and thanks to Charles P. Ries a lot of reviews on my chapbooks. But it’s true I don’t submit a lot of poetry to online publications, I still prefer print, its more tangible, feels more permanent, and I prefer it. And I don’t google myself too much, I’ve heard it can make you go blind.
Scot: Tell us about Zen Baby? Do you take submissions or solicit?
Chris: I started Zen Baby zine in 2000. I’d quit drinking a few years earlier and was completely unemployable (still am, mostly). I call it the Literary Hijinks of Glorified Nobodies. It’s a bit of a literary mosh-pit, poems, continents, classes, ideas, all clashing and getting together in a mess of glue and smeared ink. I rarely solicit submissions unless I really like someone’s work and haven’t heard from them for a while. I get a lot of submissions, almost all of them through regular mail. The reason I don’t put my email online is because email submissions are too hard to keep track of. There is a lot of prisoner input, both artwork and poetry; (I also run a distro for prisoner-made zines, I Press On! Publications); it includes artwork, semi-coherent socio-political rants, and tons of small press poets and often some (mildly) juicy small press gossip (but not the mean kind, only satire).
Scot:“ Do you have a writing routine?
Chris: No, but I prefer to write late at night, unless internet porn or games are competing for my attention, or I like to spend an entire Saturday afternoon not getting dressed or brushing my teeth, just cigarettes and coffee, and not eating really, but that doesn’t happen enough, sadly, so I write whenever I can no longer stand the fact that I’m not writing.
Scot: I have seen pictures of you at a typewriter. So, how do you write—longhand, typewriter, computer?
Chris: My good friend and favorite writer Joe Pachinko took those pictures at my house. I think he wanted to camp it up a bit, he’s a clown and typewriter aficionado himself. I collect typewriters, I cherish them, they are treasures, but most of mine are badly in need of repair right now. They will also be our best mode of communication when the lights truly go out. I actually do most of my writing on an Alphasmart3000, which is just a simple, battery operated portable keyboard with no bells and whistles. It was invented for kids with ADD who get distracted by Internet porn, and I plug it into Word for editing and printing. It’s the best thing I’ve ever found, a nice middle ground between a typewriter and a computer.
Scot: Who were your favorite poets growing up? Did you have a major influence?
Chris: I discovered Bukowski when I was 15. I also read a lot of Brautigan and the Beats as a teenager. My mother owned a bookstore, so I discovered a lot of writers that way.
Scot: Who are your heroes?
Chris: `I don’t really believe in heroes, but I have some ideas: G o AWOL, feed a hungry person, don’t fear the government, stand up for your rights and of those around you, don’t be silent, speak up for prisoners, publish your own shit, don’t join any groups. In a fascist country, these are heroic acts, in my opinion.
Scot: What is the most unlikely place you ever gave a poetry reading?
Chris: I’ve read at people’s houses, in bars, in the parking lot outside of our open mic after they closed our venue recently, don’t know how unlikely those places are. I don’t know if reading inside of a Laundromat for 4 years counts, there are other readings in Laundromat/Cafes but not many, I suppose. Long live the Wired Wash Café!
Scot: What is it to be an underground poet?
Chris: To be invisible except to all of your friends, to be mildly appreciated by those who have nothing else left in life; being constantly busy sending letters and obscure mail art for no apparent reason to people I’ve never met. Life in a mailbox is not a lonely life, though some would say it might be futile, but I don’t mind. We create community from wherever we are, virtually or through the mail. I know people from all over the country and overseas, and I probably will never meet most of them. The small press and zines are the only truly free press that we have left, that is, not controlled by corporations or government, vital and necessary forms of communication, I say.
Scot: If you could ask a literary figure a question—a sit down–who would it be and how would it go?
Chris: I would love to talk to Jack Kerouac, he’s appeared to me in a lot of dreams that I chronicled in a zine many years ago. I don’t have the dreams anymore, sadly, but I considered them a gift, as I have felt a spiritual kinship with him for years. And I wouldn’t mind talking to Allen Ginsberg or Neal Cassady, but I wouldn’t ask them anything, I would just sit silently and listen while they babbled on about important, mystical and nonsensical things.
Scot: When not involved in poetry, what occupies your time?
Chris: Riding my electric scooter, playing internet games, making, copying, distributing zines of all types, riding the nearby roller coaster, writing letters, drinking coffee, smoking, listening to Flipper records, sleeping, watching Adult Swim Cartoons, swimming in the river, going on road trips, gambling, collecting clowns, doing odd jobs. I stay pretty busy. I play constantly, and avoiding manual labor also takes up a lot of my time, never enough time in a day.
Scot: What writers today do you like to read?
Chris: Joe Pachinko, Nicole Henares, William Taylor, Jr, Misti Rainwater-Lites, Michael Lites, Jennifer Blowdryer, Lauren Masaka, Nancy Gauquier, Debbie Kirk, Brian Morrisey, John Sweet, Jesse Beagle, Bruce Isaacson, Todd Moore, S.A. Griffin, Scott Wannberg, John Dorsey, David S. Pointer, Charles P. Ries, Frank Walsh, those are just a few of my favorite poets right now.
Scot: Does poetry really matter?
Chris: Not really, but it matters to those of us that write it. Too many writers, very few readers and/or buyers. I try to support a few poets that I really like, by actually buying chapbooks from them, trading is great but we all gotta eat, and the small publishers who do good work, they should be supported. As far as the mainstream goes, poetry might be considered the lowest form of art right now. I blame slam poetry and constipated- academic-poetry for this. Slam poetry has tried to turn poetry into an MTV commodity, and it’s succeeded, it’s popular and lucrative, but that’s where the conformity and lack of soul comes in. People don’t realize there are alternatives to these types of poetry, so they ignore us where it might count. There are so many amazing books from small press writers, really good writers, who should be on the bookstore shelves, not just in our living rooms. It is a shame how many good writers go under appreciated and unnoticed in this culture.
Scot: What question would you like someone to ask, but they never do?
Chris: “Can I cook dinner for you and then have sex with you and then leave you alone so you can write poems about me?” Well, I get that sometimes, but not enough.
Correspondence here: Christopher Robin P.O. Box 1611 Santa Cruz, CA 95061-1611
Guild of Outsider Writers
Thanks to all for participating in one way or another in the last two challenges. The purpose is to build community and to generate good poetry. If you said you would participate and didn’t–I understand life.
All is forgiven–please come home. 🙂
homeless chris lost his campsite
for years independent,
he could bathe and cook there
but the city moved in
metal mike cant find any oil in Texas
comes home to baby and poet mama
every few weeks-
calls me from the racetrack
dan the marshmallow man is outta weed
two suicide attempts at the ½ way house in one week
yesterday I almost crashed into Mellow Mike
while biking down Pacific avenue
I caught up with him later
and explained I didn’t have any brakes
he immediately got his tools out
and tightened them
I gave him 2 cigarettes for the help-
I cant afford to tighten my karma
I used to give away entire ssi checks in one town
and was handed money by a stranger in the next-
I buy two tacos and a coffee
and sit in the sun at the Firefly Café
smoke and enjoy my buzz
I will go to the local store
sharing the car with the soft poet and the short story writer
we will buy cheap smokes for the month
homeless chris will sleep on my couch
for the weekend-
I worry mostly about the deterioration of my health
in the coming years
in so many ways I know they are trying to kill
people like us
and I don’t know if marshmallow dan can really prevent
another earthquake from ever happening
via the radio signals in his room
but still cigarettes are going up to $6 a pack
and I cant afford to give him more than 3 per visit
whether he is saving the world or not-
my sis doesn’t get the welfare anymore
so we went into the junk business together-
I know it’s tight out here
a junk seller always knows
treasure becomes irrelevant in the face of scarcity
necessities become luxuries
nice clean clothes with the tags still on ‘em
lucky to get 50 cents from the Mexican women
who pick through my pile
I don’t wanna load ‘em back in the van
under the dead heat of early summer,
I come off like I hustle
but I’ve had it pretty good
I jumped off the cliff pretty early in life
never gave myself a chance to study the ways of employment
I sought experience instead
I’ve roamed thousands of miles of this earth
keeping myself open to miracles
to coins to street minstrels
I was rarely disappointed
though I stayed in the drink for too long
always with the underground angels
I have no skills or resume
there is nothing I can do in the mainstream
that is the key
I know I sound like a hippie
but in a kind world
that is where my philosophy lies
I’ve always believed the stars are chump change
in my hands
I’ve never believed in one god
I’m a foolish gambler
it is better odds to bet on all of them
using trick dice whenever possible
**Christopher Robin is my guest poet. I will run his interview/review tomorrow.
–for Bob Church
we grew up playing until dark
be home before
the street lights came on
mowing vacant lots
marking the bases
with scrapes of wood
a pastime passion
we were outside kids
wanting to be mantle
knocking it out
of the park or
drysdale striking out
the side in the last game
of the world series
we grew up
butch wax flat tops
gap tooth smiles
blue jeans rolled up
and dirty knees
from the creek
with bacon and string
both love and war
we went looking
for that american dream
doing our own thing
our own way
finding nothing ever
remains the same
and there is no
yellow brick road
we shed some blood
along the way and
in that blood found
the real dream
was not a picket fence
a cadillac in every pot
but the love of
a good woman
arms holding us tight
to wake up
when you first hit me
eyes filled with fire…
those beautiful eyes
mesmerised me and the pain
noone else saw it…
to frightened to say – I struggled to walk away
Kim a 17 syllable poet is a mother, sister, lover, daughter, friend and librarian who likes to run, jump and frolic in Melbourne’s parks and laneways. She also knits away her winter nights while listening to the sounds of her youth and yearning….
Kim’s writing can be found here.
I knew a man years ago whose
eyes would get this sudden glow
like oil lamps tipping, cascades of
fire slipping over table, couch and
The more he burned the more words
rolled. He was a hot September
orchard made furious by impending
cold. Stories, concerns, affections were
told a thousand times but undiminished in
the telling. Sometimes there was yelling
about Indonesian injustice to the
neighborhood at 3 a.m.
When he spoke you could
hear the lit fuse, the speech speeding
just behind the thoughts that flew in
all directions like pieces of a blasted
One time it lasted for months.
He singed and scorched those
too close. They backed away as
from someone lighting sparklers
in the living room or a knife
thrower with no sense of balance.
He spent his talents many nights
under back porch lights making
things on paper. Piles of color,
layers of lines with pencil, paint,
glue, food coloring, brushes and
razorblades. Words flayed from
newspapers were rearranged into
an obscure and subversive screed.
The grotesque collection of a
sleepless compulsion, an art
intended for rejection and revulsion.
His incandescent corneas would
blaze with joy. Like when people
out for a walk saw him on his knees.
With a fistful of chalk writing poems on
the frying sidewalk.
How many saw him that night of
the new August moon climbing to
the roof of the backyard shed? He
blistered and bled on hot tar shingles
and sat like one of Lucifer’s lost
paratroopers. He stared at black
windows, empty yards, and wondered
at the absolute silence of the subdivided.
Without sleep his dreams seared the
day. He feared the neighbors, saw
schemes in their gestures, covered
the windows. Cars in the parking
lot brought festering thoughts that
stayed for days.
Intense ecstasy flared to rage. His apartment
became a cage, a closet full of wasps, a
disaster. All details of his life, his wife,
coworkers, strangers, mocked and
plotted plans for betrayal impossible to
master. Housework was held hostage.
Holes in the wall charted fits of hate.
He hated the pleasure that fled, he hated
dread and love, family, cars, food and
sleep. Those around him found no reprieve.
His place sounded like the traffic in
hell on New Year’s Eve. No one could
take the daily earthquakes, he heat, the
boiling smoke. To choke
the flames there were white coats, white
pills, white walls – until the brain was
cool enough to touch. With a crutch
or two it might not blind and injure as
much as it used to.
Even now, though, sometimes late
on the porch in the dark or folding
laundry or working in the yard, the
eyes will widen, words will come, the
embers will throw a spark.
Nathan Moore is a father of three, poet, painter and maker of other stuff from Columbus, Ohio. He once went to grad school to study literature but quit after reading the “Outlaw Bible of American Poetry.” His blog, “Exhaust Fumes and French Fries,” can be found at http://disorder1313.wordpress.com.