Rob Krabbe
The Irony of Wet Cement
a poem by Rob Krabbe
I have stood today.
I’ve been taller, yet
bent and spindly.
Captain roll me over;
out of the traffic-way
let me not bar egress
or even egrets,
I manage it.
Comfort, or tease my soul,
into a verse, yet waning;
n'er as bright for me
as the wonders of
Mount Olympus!
The gods and gadflies
portion nothing, and
pour hatred on thick;
pancakes and meat.
I devour it.
God change my heart,
I breath, in life;
I exhale, death.
I sweat, blood;
I struggle, for breath.
I strain, at gravity,
I sit, and wait;
I die again, and rise.
…not sanctified.
The stairway vacant,
to heaven or hell,
the knock comes to my door.
I refuse to answer,
my desperation falling moot
onto the dirty pile.
Then at once and again
I’ve written my opus.
I deplore it.
VENI, VEDI, VECI,
the bored arena crowd
looks eager for havoc;
the blood drips, onto the
killing floor with the drain.
I can not die more than once!
Have at!
A-Viva!
Repetitive suffering is boring!
Doom's door, is closed,
and quiet; threshold empty.
I kill myself over and over,
with no victory, nor cheers,
my fine fellow, in fine fettle.
Forget life and death,
here is us living.
Not an opinion left, and
shallow the lament,
no bones, no spirit, no flesh;
silent and illusive,
yet my reductive clarity,
my *effervescent* personality,
my dwindling perceptabilities,
my adequate physicalites, yet,
covered in wet cement.
I find I am, and I did
I find I fail,
On these, I find
I came and went;
speak your eulogy,
sing loud your hymns,
Fauré pen your best!
My requiem falls flat.
By the way, as well to lament …
*Jimmy Hoffa* may it
please the court;
covered in wet cement!
CR 11.30.2021 Rob
Krabbe
and NoonAtNight Publications
