Featuring Rob Plath

non-ghosts

i own two spoons
one was my grandmother’s
& one was my mother’s
the spoons of ghosts

i remember as a boy
digging w/a spoon
searching for something

i know all too well what’s
beneath the earth now

sometimes i want to scoop
the gray pulp from my skull
like carving a pumpkin 

today i stir the soup
& feed the cat
w/the pair of spoons

& sit there quietly
happy we’re both
non-ghosts

_________________________________________________

BENEATH MY BOYHOOD ROOF

when the cursing began
beneath my boyhood roof
i’d retreat to the cedar chest

i’d lie down on top
of all the linens
close the large lid
& stay there for hours

it muffled the screaming
the shattering glass
& knuckles thru walls

i was like a five year-old vampire
but my bane was blood

__________________________________________________

Body Bag Nation

the masses,
the so-called living
don’t know it
but they’re
actually dead

each zipped up
w/in their skin 

a nation
full of flesh
body bags 

equipped 
w/eye-holes
to pretend
they see

& mouth-holes
to emit bullshit
& nose-holes
to waste precious
fucking air

_____________________________________

MY SOUNDTRACK

when i was 10 years old i bought 
a tape recorder at a garage sale
& i went in my bedroom & shut the door
away from the crazy fighting going on
beneath other parts of the roof
& listened to my little black radio
for hours, waiting for certain songs
to capture on my new machine
i remember i had joyously recorded
“wild horses” by the rolling stones
& zeppelin’s “the rain song”
& a bunch of other favorites
but in the morning when i happily rose
& played my sacred tape back
i heard the shrieking & the curses
from my own house in the background
the hell was burned onto my magic tape 
they’d even managed to corrupt
my beautiful fucking escape

________________________________________________

THE TRUCE

i remember a certain day when i was 4 years old

i remember my brother threw a lamp

i remember how it broke on my sister's leg

i remember how she screamed 

i remember the holes in her walls

i remember the accusation YR A WHORE!

i remember the retort FUCK YOU!

i remember my mother & brother & sister 

all screaming at once 

i remember how it drove me off the couch

where i was trying to sleep

i remember shutting my eyes & running w/my fist out

i remember screaming BE QUIET! 

i remember the sound when my hand went thru 

the windowpane of the front door

i remember how they all stopped

i remember my mother whispering: 

See what you made him do? 

i remember a sudden calmness

i remember one of them examining my tiny fist 

i remember the others sweeping up the glass 

i remember the trio apologizing over & over

i remember being smart enough to keep it a secret 

that i had not meant to shatter the glass

i remember the piece of cardboard

taped over the empty frame 

i remember my hand in a bandage

i remember the red seeping thru the gauze 
i remember the brief but beautiful truce


Bio:

ROB PLATH IS A 45-YEAR-OLD POET FROM NEW YORK.  A FORMER STUDENT OF ALLEN GINSBERG, HE HAS PUBLISHED HUNDREDS OF POEMS IN THE SMALL PRESSES.  HE HAS EIGHT CHAPBOOKS OUT: ASHTRAYS AND BULLS  (LIQUID PAPER PRESS 2003), AN IV BAG FULL OF BILE  (SCINTILLATING PUBLICATIONS 2007), WHISKEY AND CLAY  (PUDDING HOUSE PUBLICATIONS 2008), SQUEEZING BLOOD FROM THE ALPHABET  (ERBACCE PRESS 2008), TAPPING ASHES IN THE DARK (LUMMOX PRESS 2008), THERE'S A LITTLE HOBO IN MY HEART WHO FOREVER GIVES THE FINGER TO HUMANITY  (D/E/A/D/B/E/A/T PRESS), NICOTINE SCRIBBLINGS FROM A HAMMOCK IN THE VOID (GOOD JAPAN PRESS 2009 ) AND TREE KILLER INK ISSUE #4  ( 39 POEMS BY ROB PLATH). HIS FIRST FULL-LENGTH BOOK IS A BELLYFUL OF ANARCHY  PUBLISHED BY EPIC RITES PRESS IN 2009. HIS SECOND FULL-LENGTH BOOK OF POETRY THERE'S A FIST DUNKED IN BLOOD BEATING IN MY CHEST  WAS RELEASED IN 2010 BY EPIC RITES PRESS  AND A THIRD POETRY COLLECTION DEATH IS DEAD  WAS RELEASED IN BY EPIC RITES PRESS IN 2012. IN 2014, EPIC RITES PRESS RELEASED ROB'S FIRST CHILDREN'S BOOK HEARTS FOR BRAINS AND IN 2015, THEY RELEASED HIS CUTTING EDGE CREATIVE WRITING EXERCISE BOOK CALLED AN AX FOR THE FROZEN SEA. ROB'S FIRST NOVELLA SWALLOWTUDE WILL BE OUT IN 2016 UNDER EPIC RITES PRESS.  AND THERE IS MORE STUFF IN THE WORKS.  

More poems by Rob Plath:

10 June 2022:

Featuring J.W. Gardner

GETTING RICH (a dog's story)

“One these days I’m gonna get rich

from playing the lottery

But for now

I’m counting up my money

One penny

after another

Put them all together

now I got three dollar

enough for 40oz amber

bottle

of pleasure

and maybe

a cheap cigar”

he would holler

chest stuck out

full of Johnny Courage

and grand ideas

It’s the simple things she misses the most

two draws left

on the shared cigarette

last night’s spaghetti

back in the oven tonight

served up again for dinner

today and tomorrow

And she tells her child

son I don’t know what we are gonna do

the child support didn’t come in again

and the stamps are running low

turn the lantern down some son

gotta save the oil

winter still has a long way to go

and we haven’t even reached the snow

It was the middle of the night

You and the kid were asleep tight

He made his way out real quiet

guilty sneak thief

like I don’t know

like I can’t smell the bourbon and cowardice

and the stench of that other woman

all over his soul

I followed along in the shadows

tracking him

insuring he didn’t

change his mind

lose his nerve

sidetrack

his staggering swagger

and turn back

to where you and the boy were fast sleeping

peacefully

unaware of the blessing

unfolding

like roses blooming

in the dark morning

He reaches into the coffee can labeled

“THE BOY’S COLLEGE FUND”

Takes the twenty out

and drops his house key

back in return

He creeps

almost as quietly as me

making his way out of the house

so very carefully

He don’t want any confrontation

don’t want to explain

to the boy

that he aint his responsibility

So instead

he looks down onto me

and says:

“I’m sorry Dog

don’t know what to say

The child support

didn’t come again today

And there aint enough here

for me to stay”

Out the door he walks

Head up with blind eyes

Into the light and darkness and noise and filth

I walk quietly back

To where

The boy and his mother sleep

Lay down in front of the door

Head on paws

Ears alert

Guarding the greatest treasure ever

No intruders

allowed here

Not even

the stranger

that just 

left here

200 BLOCKS EAST LAKEWOOD

Where you see

Wore out busted up cars

And overgrown yards

Filled with weather faded toys

And shopping carts on the cracked sidewalks

Apartment complexes and empty lots

Run down rental homes

I see

Third hand chariots of hope

Green worlds for children’s imaginations

Dogs and playthings still well loved

Signs that someone got dinner

The paths to remind you always about your momma

And a whole bunch of little homes making the best of life

I see

An old man loving that twenty year old little Toyota

That keeps him from having to walk to work

Mothers and fathers just happy

That they’re able to have a yard for the kids

And the dog and the toys

Kids running around happy and not hungry

Laughing out the warning “Step on a crack break your momma’s back

Families grateful to be in a house

Young couples just starting in their first apartment

And a few open spaces for the cats to hunt

FEARS

I don’t talk about you

Much to anyone

It’s not shame

More like fear.

I’m fearful to lose you.

I’m fearful I’ll fail you.

I’m fearful that my god is just cruel enough to take you.

I’m fearful that I’m just dumb enough to lose you.

And the thing about fear

Is it’s real

Just as real as a fist to the mouth

It’s powerful

It’s primal

It’s Faith

It’s the raw source of everything

It’s the raw ending of everything

You see

Fear is also Hope

Fear is also Humility

Fear is also Courage

And Fear is just a tool

If you use it right

If you wield it

And not be led by it

Otherwise it overcomes you

You become so saturated

With fear

That there’s nothing left

To fear.

That’s a bad place to be

When you don’t fear anything

Then you can’t value anything

Not even yourself

I’ve been fearful of this

Of you

My entire dirty life

You’re my greatest test

Of Fear and Faith

You’re the first

Child born of my bloodline

I’m the last

Child born of my bloodline

The doctor is amazed at how active you are

Your mother showed me the sonograms

You’re moving all over the place

Always ducking and covering

Kicking your little feet pumping your fists

You’re a Gardner

The blue collar is your birthright

I guess you’re just

Getting ready early

For what life has to give

I work these 10 and 12 hour days

In the hopes that you never have to

I walked all the hard miles

Hoping that you never

Have to wear them shoes

They always told me

That it would make sense

When I had a child of mine own

All I know for sure

Is that nothing is for sure

And I never know anymore

All these deep buried emotions

Breaking the dams and let loose like a cold flow

I catch myself out on the road

Chasing dollars and losing sense

And then all of a sudden

I’m laughing and crying at the same damn time

Tatt’d out red bearded white boy covered in scars

I look like a fucking mighty Oak Tree

That’s been struck by lightning twice

In a rain storm

Tears cutting riverbeds

Through the dirt on my face

and nothing in this life of mine

has ever prepared me for you

other than everything in my life

has led me to this path to you

THE TOWERS OF THE JUMPMASTER

The Towers

Even now twenty years later

I find my head wanders

Back to the Towers

You never walked anywhere

At Jump School

You ran everywhere

Like a man with purpose

And somewhere to be

Constantly vigilant

You never knew when the call would come out

PLF RIGHT!

PLF LEFT!

And then you would immediately take form

Fall directly to the ground

Making contact

With all 5 points

Boots calf thigh ass push-up muscle

Back up shouting

“ALL CLEAR SGT AIRBORNE”

Running in formation

Singing handed down

Battle songs in cadence

A soldier’s choir praising terrible gods

Every last one of us scared

But more scared of failure

Some of us prayed

Some crossed themselves

And some of us forked fingers and spat

But we all believed

Like the first drunk monkey

Watching a Morning Star fall to the earth

We were searching the skies for FAITH

Watching those Towers

Rise from the Georgia morning fog

Red lights like Evil Eye

Winking menace

Swaying and moaning mournfully in the wind

A promise of something

Terrible to happen to us

At the first sacrifice

At the altar of the Airborne

SYMPHONY

I remember

We used to mess with him about his teeth

His name dances at the edge of remorse

At the loose sides of memory

Flapping like an untucked bed sheet

He was 2nd Platoon

And the story went

He joined the Army to get his teeth fixed

Found out after the fact

Uncle Sam don’t pay for straight teeth

It goes like that in the Army sometimes

He had a couple kids

And a wife

I don’t recall their names either

I think he may have hung himself

She had split with the kids

It goes like that in the Army sometimes

At his funeral

Our Captain called him a coward

Our First Sargent politely called the Captain an asshole

Afterwards at the barracks

We all got very quietly drunk

We all got very loudly confused

Most of us didn’t understand

That the 21 salute

Was not a symphony for the suicide

It was sympathy for the remainders

The final conclusion of the last parade

Left to sort it out

20 years later

Here I am thinking about a dead solider

Whose name I can’t remember

And just now understanding

That there wasn’t anything to understand

Then or now

©workingclassproduction.com, 2014

BIO:

Joe Gardner is an Army Airborne Veteran and a 2nd Generation American drifter and writer who calls East Lakewood, Ca home. More nights than not he can be found at home, enjoying the comfort of his family and his dog. Joe is the Founder and hired gun for Working Class Production, as well as creator and co-producer of The Last Sunday, An Evening of Poetry and Art.

He is also the 2013 Joe Hill Labor Poetry Award recipient and his work has appeared in The Modern Drunkard Magazine, The San Gabriele Valley Poetry Quarterly, Cadence Collective, Spilt Ink Poetry and AMASS Magazine. He has also been published in the following anthologies: Gutters & Alleyways: Perspectives on Poverty and Struggle, The Men’s Heartache Anthology,Lummox Anthologies, 1 thru 3, Edgar Allan Poet 3.