Ramrod

Ramrod

by Cam M. Roberts

 

She stuck her flower
stem-first
into the gun barrel
petals-deep

We’ll sweat globular bullets
until the cross-hairs weep

 

© CMR, 2014
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Text

Text

by Cam M. Roberts

 

when
ever
this
body
left
womb
half
that
mind
stay
hung
back
like
bats
lurk
amid
cold
dark
deep
cave
away
from
sun’s
fire
ball
beam
rays
burn
only
love
noct
urne
with
soft
full
moon
glow
long
till
dawn
come
then
turn
back
exit
sky’s
vast
spew
sunk
into
dirt
down
hole
like
coal
mine
then
zone
goes
side
ways
hide
seek
find
done
been
said
done
been
read
gone
over
this
none
left
told
late
news
like
echo
echo
echo
goon
fail
once
gain
soon
loss
rise
over
runs
take
nice
easy
slow
pace
don’t
want
hurt
your
self
roll
rock
high
upon
hill
when
atop
apex
it’ll
ouch
slip
from
hand
gets
dumb
mass
can’t
feel
grip
numb
lets
drop
then
fall
back
down
ward
onto
flat
base
game
over
fail
hard
ain’t
that
some
lame
duck
shit
fuck
duck
same
shit
ever
more
flip
side
dumb
luck
tale
flip
coin
call
head
gets
tail
thus
epic
fail
what
next
toil
best
exit
void
feel
safe
haha
more
like
fail
safe
none
ever
full
born
else
more
area
sore
room
feel
wall
ache
just
some
cage
with
shut
door
lock
turn
dead
bolt
keys
lost
torn
knob
won’t
open
push
pull
yell
help
till
dead
very
long
stay
wipe
down
rust
from
iron
bars
fall
self
ward
keep
away
till
last
fail
unto
tomb
same
cage
bite
dust
hand
coil
into
crab
claw
dead
grip
alas
turn
over
last
page
book
worm
eats
word
just
like
worm
eats
body
shit
all’s
down
hill
from
here
long
skid
mark
from
bald
tire
spin
burn
road
kill
time
wait
wish
stay
coma
tose
some
joke
keep
life
give
love
take
self
hood
lift
your
veil
know
what
your
face
mean
bare
mask
soul
born
from
open
lids
then
eyes
make
self
home
thou
rave
good
lord
best
stay
calm
what
god’s
name
sake

 

© CMR, 2014

Coda

Coda

by Cam M. Roberts

 

I.
Hold me indefinitely as an article of clothing
or show me love or the meaning of:
Fermata.

I’m already worn, broken in
by the form of another.

How can indeterminate eyes assert
such an intransigent inference, then turn
it into a lifelong belief? Why does the soul cling
with vehemence to a horde of erroneous sentiments?
Is the mind prone to its own proclivities?

The visible
world is an intermittent
hell, the sublimated animal is man.

II.
I think death is a brief obstruction, a scintilla
of interference, a wrinkle which seems to iron itself out
if allowed. I think our tears must be steam to prevent scorching
the heart to nothing but charred flesh and scar tissue, phantom limbs
needn’t be cauterized.

Condone you alone shall muster
the will to go on, let your voids
last as long as they please, then
by inchmeal be replenished with
a newness that is nameless —

I’d like to think that we don’t die every second,
but that Time does — perhaps Time is the lexicon
of less: ruthless, merciless, heartless, fatherless.
It’s his loss. Don’t give it a second thought.
Often times, less is more.

III.
I am always stumbling
half-fall
half-recover

I am full of contemplation

On the whole I am nothing
but a walking-talking
hormonal machine
with mechanisms of membrane

Somehow
I am learning
to accept a few substitutions
from which I custodian the bereft dominions
and salvage the now vacant vaults by endowing words
[as if cenotaphs] with the corporeal memory of a disembodied meaning

I hope
to soon restore
my faith in this torn
language by which is meant: my voice

IV.
I was an honorary outlaw as a boy,
I was blown away by the song “Highwayman” —
many a time within cathexis I listened
so involved in reverie it appeared
I was put under an otherworldly trance,
an oracle ruminating and chewing
on that episodic ballad like cud
with such memorable lyrics, and
phlegmatic tempo-rhythms — mostly stolid
in tone — wherein a quartet of wayward men
[archetypal trailblazers in the American sense]
form a collective first-person narrative sequence
comprised of elegiac solos with gruff and rustic voices
as nuanced in each spectral man’s
temporality, occupational hazard, and fatal circumstance,
but nevertheless were they all kindred in personae as revolving ghosts
in the transcendental spirit of each story told:
And I’ll be back again
and again
and again
and again
and again

Comfort came from those clear and twangling echoes,
stoic reverberations of falling chains
like: Once upon a time I had a sullen soul
now under a most redemptive rain
I don’t.

 

© CMR, 2014