ROBIN WYATT DUNN - POEMS

​Robin Wyatt Dunn lives in a state of desperation engineered by late capitalism, within which his mind is a mere subset of a much larger hallucination wherein men are machines, machines are men, and the world and everything in it are mere dreams whose eddies and currents poets can channel briefly but cannot control. ​

​the blast lights of the dying street

ignited red for walking

the tired sheep in their wheelchairs wave sadly

to denote their glory


the sleep of the sky comes closer in his white




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we say the devil but it's more a color

or a cloak

temptation the costume before the curtain


shall you invest your body

with the robe


the way a thought might climb into your head

rope to rock

on ascent


sometimes ants climb grass stalks

higher, higher

so the mushroom germ can explode inside their head

spreading spores over the valley


but the performance

and the theater

the script, direction and the music

all of the lights

the furniture and props

in the show


wait to be covered with the seeds

to be transformed

your own face

your own body

gait look and smile


out from the theater

closed or burnt

abandoned

the road needs no show to shine with its own light

a few notches down

underneath the spot


glasses flipped or tongues geared in

the carriage of your mind

jittery but fast

over the canyon of desire

launches its name and right



- - 



as you might gloam the deep

with your hand

trim the sand and sleep

for all the trimming in their keep are lying of the ocean

how it cares and scrapes your body for its food


the driving fill

not drowned but baked

cooked to ten degrees of aching

on the marrow field

each drifting each turning binding in its sleep the names




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