Keep the Strange Light

Keep the Strange Light

by Cam M. Roberts
"Remembrance of Things Past" by Marcel Proust | Cover Illustration by Andrzej Klimowski

Remembrance of Things Past           by Marcel Proust  |  Cover Illustration by Andrzej Klimowski










Your face, within a certain oblong
Distance, is catalyzed by a curtained dimness
of hooded light,
Seeming in a way cloistered
like an apprehended simile
or one too many slurs which
expose the wreckage of our words
as they cannot be salvaged
by their having, and the truth
has yet to be reconciled from our mutual desire
to break the chains which bind us in silence.

All things are let go in the grand scheme,
Even one’s own blood
is let,
let go,
blood-letting some call it –
It’s the healing that matters.
healing as the mimetic image
of unspun or rewound:
A flip-book being flipped in reverse.
Blood being un-let, taken back, carried into, returned
within the inside of the veins. 
I see her flowers with their dishonest air,
They implicate the atmosphere in this quiet room.
It is a gravelly night, and our moods are now in explication.
Blooming inward
as if we were – Together
being slowly
over this one
flicker of life
like a wish
we’d been granted,
or a sanction
we’d been sentenced
to suffer –
Without a trace of shame
nor any shred of hesitation,
The world is lensed in clarity.
And so, from the lack of annoyance,
I allow you to astonish
the very life
From my eyes
as opposed to a common avoidance
where I set this head
like the sun behind the larches,
and when all things
absolve to the most
minimum light,
the night falls,
and I crouch
both eyes
in surrender. 
I bear up my guilt in dreams
to where
it would beat the very breath
from these ragged lungs. 
If there’s a god, then to her I prayed
in a sudden flash, and with such a violence
where I would imagine flowers in their wrath,
And question how by day they go on ignored
to the point of being, at times, stomped upon –
The Amen
the last bit of dirt
recovering the small abscess
of earth we’d exhumed
in hopes of resurrecting
what was once there,
a garden nestled by wilderness:
A collaboration of our own heaven
Which would surround us
as we excelled
in the art of reassembling
everything else –



© CMR, 2013

Until Time Breaks

Until Time Breaks

by Cam M. Roberts

Time drools out of the hourglass
like gritty spit stuck
with stubbornness, a disrespect
of one’s misery.
I felt this way soon after
Reading All That Fall,
a Beckettian radio-play.

These hands dig for morning
While my mind still dwells
In Gerontion and No Man’s Land
I now bear down and plunge
The pipe dreams of the happily ever after.
My private utopia is the quintessence of copper –
The wet dream world of a wishing well –

Here lies my reality as of late:
A cauldron of macabre mornings,
thickening their viscosity
in a stagnancy of myopia and catatonic stares
like the purgatorial Endgame negated of its ending.

There is such a thing as
Being too sober to think without feeling –
A hangover for instance, the departure
of not knowing the difference
while watching the perpetual travesty
that is the news media.
Imagine the first few verses
of “Sunday Morning Coming Down”
A washed-up zone more volatile than nostalgia –
It’s like a liquid metal:
Mercury, its commonplace, Quick Silver –
Or the Messenger who hesitates.


© CMR, 2012