Southern Angst

It's a warm,

quiet 

day.

The sun

shines

through an

open

blind.

She sets

her

magazine

on her

lap

and sighs.

The breeze

from a

celling fan

blows across

her legs.

It's a warm,

quiet

day.

Nothing is

happening;

she wonders if

anything

ever will. 

Streets

We stand

on a front

porch;

we drink

and we

laugh.

A half moon

hangs

over the

roof

as cigarette smoke

mingles

with the

scent of

summer sweat.

My girlfriend

laughs;

she takes

a quick drag

off a cigarette.

Our youth

is a flickering

candle,

burning out

fast,

midnight

to

midnight. 

Poetry Superhighway

 One of my poems was published on Poetry Superhighway. You can view it here:

https://www.poetrysuperhighway.com/psh/poetry-from-julie-standig-and-robert-zeman/

Boys and Ghosts

Up a grassy

hill,

down by a

marble gravestone:

we sit on

snow covered

grass

and pass

a bottle of

liquor. 

A foghorn

wails into

the night.

I take

a hard swig-

I gag,

wet my lips

and set

the bottle

back on

cold ground.

In the distance

a car

rumbles past

as I forget

who I am. 

Black Sweater/Black Summer

She's lost

in the 

shadows:

sitting

on the

couch

with her

mother,

watching

videos

flicker on

MTV,

near the

phone

in the kitchen 

that never

rings. 

Poetry Highway

 One of my poems was selected for "Poetry Super Highway". You can view it here:

https://www.poetrysuperhighway.com/psh/poetry-from-robert-zeman-and-maclean-gander/

Fires

Fist wrapped

around a beer

and

blonde

pixie cut

blowing

in the wind.

Summer smiles 

and

Le Tigre

on a beat up

stereo.

Pale skin-

soft in the shade.

Talk, talk

talk

and rage

into 

the night. 

Anarchy Logos (At The Food Court)

Black purses

hang from

slender, pale

shoulders.

Lips wrap 

around

plastic straws.

Studded belts

glimmer

in

fluorescent light.

They walk past

like

lions

stalking

the jungle.

I rub

my eyes

and wander out

into

summer heat.

I drift 

through a

parking lot

and dream

of

new weekends

and

hazy,

unknown nights. 

North and South

Bright light

beach-

warm afternoon. 

Cool breeze

in my hair-

water

soft as

glass. 

The hotels

stretch on

for miles;

one end

to the next.

A seagull

glides

through the air. 

My friend

hands me

what's left of

his cigarette.

I stop

and listen:

waiting,

wanting,

young and

alive. 

Alt. 19

 A cheap motel room/a bottle of Popov vodka/shadows on tile walls/wild eyes.

Outside, 
the night
closes in
like wolves. 

American Sidewalks

 As wind

crashes

against my

flesh

and cold snow

falls on

my black jacket,

I dream 

of a face,

soft and pure,

in that

warm

Palm Harbor

sun. 

Aim

She's got a
fast Jeep:

down the highway,

outskirts of town;

down by

neon gas stations

and the

dirty beach.

We pass

homeless men

in wheelchairs

and the

liquor mart

jammed with

cars.

Outside,

night 

closes in

as waves

crash against

the sand.

I light my

cigarette

and

glance over

at her

face:

young,

bold,

sharp as

knives.

She keeps her

pale hands

tight 

against the

steering wheel.

There is

no other

way out. 

Stranded By Malls (Raised On Video Games)

A music video

flashes

on the T.V.

in her

dark apartment

as neighbors

pound on

walls.

I set

my arm

around her

shoulder

and pull her

close.

The phone rings;

we don't

pick up.

The music

blasts

on and

on.

I feel like

I could

sink into

this ratty old

couch

and stay there

forever.

Suddenly,

the police

knock on

the door.

Who has

time 

to answer

doors?

I take a deep

sip of

beer

and run my

palm

against her

untamed

blonde hair. 

Been Dirt

Sitting

on a porch,

quiet midnight

in Florida.

She pours 

vodka

into a glass

of Coke;

stars shimmer

like

lost diamonds

in the

midnight sky.

I hear

the sound of

her voice,

the sound of

her dreams.

I press

a plastic cup

to my lips

and take

a swig.

We have

nothing

and 

we want it all.

Her voice sings,

soft and

steady,

and on

and on.

I light

a cheap cigarette

and let

the night 

fall

all over me. 

Ripped

He hands me
a bottle
of vodka.
I take
my first
sip.
He stands
before me:
hair slicked back
like
Brian Setzer,
black jacket
and torn jeans.
The booze
goes down
my throat,
wet and warm.
The room
begins to
spin around:
I forget
who I am.
A soft feeling
runs through
my body.
It feels like
nothing bad
has ever
happened.
He turns up
the stereo
and grins.
I light
a cigarette
and stare
at the wall.
Finally,
I am
free.

Finality

She calls
me up
and tells me
it's
all over.
I can
hear
the hatred
in her
voice.
I beg,
I plead;
she tells me
I've
pushed it
too far.
We
hang up
and I
walk
outside
to smoke.
I look up
at a
bright, blue
Florida
skyline.
I'm
all alone
again.
A bird
flies
over my
head
as I blow
out
a cloud
of smoke.
Maybe
there is
someone
else
out there
in some
strange
bar
downtown.
Something,
someone,
anything.
I walk
back inside
and
crawl into
bed.

2004

I am
drunk
on vodka;
a punk
band
plays
in the
room
next
door.
The noise
rattles
the walls.
I head
to the
toilet:
I throw
up
a little.
My head
spins
back
and forth
like a
clock.
I check
my face
in the
mirror:
dirty
blonde
emo
hair,
bags
under my
eyes.
I sip
my drink
and look
down
at the
white
tiles.
There
are
shoe prints
all
over
the floor.
I close
my eyes
and pray
to God
she's
not
pregnant.
I finish
my drink
and go
back
outside.

Spring

A young
blonde
stands
on the
corner,
waiting
for her
ride
home from
work.
The sun
shines
onto her
hair,
soft
and
immaculate.
I see
her
from the
corner
of my
eye
and blow
a cloud
of smoke
into
the air.
My shoes
feel
old
and damp.
I keep
walking.
She gets
into
a car
and drives
away.
You can't
always
get
what you
want.

Fish Food Magazine

Two of my old poems, "The Plague" and "Mutants", have been re-published in Fish Food Magazine. You can view them here: http://www.fishfoodmagazine.com/the-plague-mutants-robert-zeman

Poetry Superhighway

Once again, I was selected as Poet of the Week by Poetry Superhighway. You can view my work here: http://poetrysuperhighway.com/psh/