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/