by Rob Plath
nothing will ever infiltrate this place unless it be sent from the dark spaces between stars
i lived in a dark apartment for years w/brown wooden walls & windows like thick blocks of ice & blankets tacked over these strange panes.
i believe baudelaire would've loved that place. the two rooms always filled w/smoke & chipped wine stained cups on every stick of third-hand furniture & in one of the corners a dead fern in a planter that i used as an ashtray.
then she came along suddenly like a warm bright cat on a cold tombstone & coaxed me out of it, asking me to live w/her in this place full of windows & i reluctantly went into the light, slowly accepting it.
i sat happily before bright tall windows & we used the blankets that blotted out my outside world for picnics in the park.
then four years later she stabbed me right in the yellow rays of daylight--an assassin sent by the sun.
now the blankets are back over the windows & as i sip from chipped wine stained cups i feel baudelaire nodding in approval at the vertical covers over the panes.
& on certain nights i think i hear him whisper, "neither weep for picnics lost nor be afraid to let the ants climb yr wine throbbing wrists..."
Rob Plath is a 40 year old poet from NY. His latest monster A Bellyful of Anarchy (epic rites press 2009) is wreaking havoc on the globe. He lives alone with his cat and does his best to stay out of trouble.