Poetry by Rob Plath

i want to build my own coffin

i want to build my own coffin so i can slam
the nails in while listening to johnny cash
i want to build my own coffin so my cats can leap in it
& explore the insides
i want to build my own coffin so i can get in it
& pretend it’s my first night in my grave
i want to build my own coffin so others will
be more prepared for my death
i want to build my own coffin before i pick
my mother’s & father’s out
i want to build my own coffin so i can
get drunk & pass out out in it
i want to build my own coffin so i can look at it everyday
& hopefully be nicer to people
i want to build my own coffin so i can pretend
i’ve risen from the dead
i want to build my own coffin so i can
watch the sun rise from it
i want to build my own coffin so it can hold
sunbeams in it before going into the earth
i want to build my own coffin so i can have sex in it
the very opposite of death
i want to build my own coffin so i can look at it
& it will act like a starting gun when i’m lazy
i want to build my own coffin because i don’t think you
should sell them to sad people left behind

Two Cigrarettes in the Dark

Two cigarettes in the dark
illuminate two human profiles
they are facing one another sitting at
a small round cafe table
they each hold the cigarette between the
pointer and middle finger
each cigarette rests in the V of the peace sign
the red cherries grow brighter as
one inhales and then the other
they gather the smoke into the branches
of their lungs
and blow it out towards one another
they are both saying the same thing
with smoke signals
their individual clouds rise above them
forming one shape beneath the stars

that was one tough summer

for weeks once
i twisted
in the sheets
like a madman
in the middle
of the night
sweating, twitching
backhanding my crawling skin
& the ants that climbed
my shaky arms
i am an unbeliever
but i fucking prayed
i made a ten-knuckled fist
out of my hands
& begged for relief
i imagine i saw an angel
glide into the room
but then i realized i must be
dreaming awake
i don’t believe in those things
but if the angel would’ve come
into my room
& looked into my heart
that summer
it would’ve lost its wings
& morphed into
an ugly cosmic dog

rob plath is a 37 year-old poet from ny.  he has published a shitload of poems in the small press.  he has one book of poems and five forthcoming this year.  he lives with his woman and 2 cats and tries his best to stay out of trouble.

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