Regarding Easiness

Regarding Easiness

by Cam Roberts

(For Rodney Jones)

After the passing storm unbuckled it gluttonous gut,
There remained a rotund slackened void of chaotic screaming
That my family would sit back and unfold chairs
And watch the whirlwind masticate their work,

Although the spectacle had bored into the visions
Of incalculable masses spreading their fat cadavers like butter
Over charred emaciation while scholars and prophets waved
To warn of the immensity just as I waved my written musings

Like flags of which blew to shreds, the ink splotched
Blurring whirred down drains of ignorance and forgetfulness,
The colors bleeding through the tighter stitch, the written
Words engraved deeper – Sacrificed still to the elements

Of rain and wind, a slurred speech with volatile breath
And rancid spit flying in the wake, all of which solidifies
The existence of narrow stripes and faded starlets
Still pluming nigh – Plath suffered the atrocities of sunsets,
Invaded by scarlet glares of tulips, felt the brutish boots –

Caused not from the insecurity of beauty, nor from vanity
In observing the sublime delicacy of nature, nor from dreams
Of domestic fortresses by Man, but sparked from the anguish
At the cold hard fact that all this suffering was not a necessity,
so why should it determine our destiny?

With a particular setting in my mind stopped & clogged
from progressing forth, now discouraged to describe
Its eternal stagnancy by means of representing it
On written patriotic fabrics blowing in the bluster;
Like my family’s resting places, you can tell because
It left one feeling curious at the contentment of strife

To plague their beds and easy chairs with infections,
Lying in leisurely filth and soiled cushions weathered worn.
It appeared the hurricane’s lazy eye of calm vacancy
Pierced the scene’s wreckage in a viscosity of hollowness.
Ms. Frasier declared that having Merrill’s lines in mind
Is that unique thing, a voice that says somebody was here before –

The scholars and prophets,
some of them, I’ve learned
are in fact my kinfolk, and I see it
in heavy evidence in their quietness,
They’ve unbeknownst to me prepared the meticulous
Path of which resulted, even now, in my long-winded meditations
where from I create worlds with words, while at the same time
they deny their very existence,
no, not with words, but with something more real and absolute than words,
whether written or spoken…

It’s my inheritance, flowing through these veins,
and it’ll follow my heirs over the widest
generational gaps ever God created
and it abides in the inner scream:
A massacre of silence –


© CMR, 2012