Tuesday, February 23, 2021


My fair cherub and you show me

your exaggeration and wonder.

I can imagine you’re built on something…

It take the room and

I’m where and when.


I’m full up my cherub.

I’m good for it but good.

The gravity of the to do

and the waif doth.


Imagine a fortnight and a bed.

And the perhaps,

where exaggeration and wonder.

A bit of vigor and game on.

There’s not sleep to be got.

This you live for.


Band of them and the

enlightened of the flock.

She tell me how

she’s ready now.


Sex is currency.

For this she dress.

Let her tell it, love,

we’re same fancy.


Talk of eligible men.

She is plush.

She tell me how

she’s ready now.

She’s in love.


By fall spoke for.

And the light

cut her abdomen.

Legion of them

called to same.

Leave to wonder

state of nubile. 



Thursday, February 18, 2021

Save Yourself II

All the wonder loosed

haphazard on strong wine.

Keep your grimace throughout. 

The eventual macabre 

was power given at me.

None encumbrance

short pulling hair.


I’m Mad Hatter.

Let her tell it,

and is guile we like this.

I’m heavy weight to outdone.

Bit of trade I tear her gown.

Run out in the garden without robe.

Hold hope the lonely pass.


The fates are, there is pain.

She’s fun and games

like prize is her life.


I presume upon yours.

I’m willing partner all things.

I’m cause how it was.

Elder girl put me on it.

All the best ritual.

Mine is sea side death spiral.

Inestimable ardor great shakes.

Tuesday, February 16, 2021






Stones will weigh you down,

break your bones.

Leave them by the roadside

for the next sucker

to try on for size,

send condolences

when they’re buried in the rubble




7 a.m.



We stayed up until

7 a.m. that morning

to finish the job

but nothing felt different,

your eyes were discolored

as if the color blue

had ceased to exist,

your body was cold in touch

and manner,

business-like, handshake salutations,

stiff arms, shifty hands,

no recognition of sacrifice,

no piece of the puzzle

had been altered.

All pieces, borders and middles,

still lay strewn on the floor,

getting kicked under the furniture,

edges fraying,

the image broken,

misaligned, incomplete,

even after I helped assemble

the frame.

I was exhausted,

staring at you

with hooded eyes

in the middle of your daydream

where somehow

you did it all yourself.




Money and Courage



The globe showed him

the Seychelles

and he decided

that’s where he would go,

the Indian ocean

would be his new home.


He hesitated,

then gave the globe

another spin;

Lima, Peru.

South America,

a different America

than the one

he was currently

floundering in,

there must be

new life there.


One more time,

he reasoned,

and the Seychelles

entreat him again.

The final decision was made.

All he needed

was money

and courage.

He pulled out                    

his empty pockets,

searched a pale heart,

stared at the blue water

of the globe,

swimming in halting,

awkward strokes

until the ocean

consumed him.

Two fingers reached

for his new home

then fell listlessly

to his bedroom carpet.




My Words



These words I write

are for me.

You can read them

but they remain mine.

You took so much

in the past

I won’t let you have

my words.

They don’t sound right

on your tongue

and your eyes

don’t see the meaning.

When I write them down

the universe takes notice,

a bond is formed

that only links me

to my words.

You don’t get an invitation

to this party for one,

the words I write

are for me

even when they’re about you.





Fairweather Street




Houses dot the landscape,

family dwellings

holding the American dream of

mom, dad and 2.5 children.

“Don’t forget me,” says Maxi

the golden retriever

and we all laugh.

Infrastructure delineates one side of the street

from the other,

roads, bridges and right-of-ways,

the lines separating chaos.

A new house has just been built

waiting for a new family,

an addition to the neighborhood,

a mystery.

Will they be friend or foe?

The birds and squirrels don’t care,

but the couple across the street does.

It’s quiet now

but after they move in

the kids might scream,

the TV may blare,

maybe the husband and wife will fight,

life on Fairweather Street hangs in the balance.

Houses fill the landscape,

family dwellings

lost inside the American dream.




The Churn




The bridge is closed,

I can’t get to you.

There’s wreckage

in the water,

someone went over the side

thrashing in the churn.

He looks like me,

but no one is helping,

they’re turning around

to go another way.

This is the only route

you gave me.

I said your name

and a line of cold water spilled from my mouth.

My ears have closed,

all I can hear

is the rush of waves.

I want out of the car

but the door won’t open.

The bridge is closed,

I can’t get to you.




 Christopher Hivner

Wednesday, February 10, 2021

Turn About

Consider I’m turn about.

You are who you was, love.

Time for us now when time 

you don’t minding.

You want for them.

They could imagine.

For this we’re friends.


The life of which your best life

and shot in the dark she’s second wife.

They all say they archetype.

I’m never more eligible.

They could imagine.


You are who you was, love.

The morning after shuffle between us.

Life of which is your best life.

There is life.

And still you don’t minding.

For this we’re friends.

You’re all heart and this reverence. G ©




Trust –

The fellow beside me won’t shoot me.

Is that a battle flag in your bag.

Should I trust a friendly face?

The hate for me none other

than we’re the same but I should be subordinate.

I’m traitor I don’t project your ancestry.

They (south) rise again.

And The labor is dark missives then as now.

Field nigga. House nigga. It ain’t but a word.

However enlightened, viper is partisan man of war.


Was Privileged that killed her.

Fool’s errand got her shot.

Act of sedition for the right to address me

 out my name. Asses the threat I pose

I am an immigrant.

The world is watching.

Export your hatred, United States.

Says so on paper.

Articles of this and that nostalgia.

Trust we were ever civil. G© 

Tuesday, February 9, 2021


Your overture Sunday with wine

and this fellow likes wine

and the conversation becomes

what is your favorite wine.

And we match over wine.

You want but you don’t want.


I’m outside your sphere

but for the algorithm.

And don’t we sabotage

one petty or another?

With no follow through

but how smart you are.

And just that quick unmatched.

And the space between isn’t just miles,

for there isn’t subject to your queen

and I haven’t chariot or wage for your grace. © 


Wednesday, February 3, 2021


It is sanctum for grasp at hem.

I could have her so I went.

I pull from her and collapse.

The release unsettling

from it went dark.


And here am I Bedlam.

Creature of Camelot.

The danger is the best part.

It is that hour

the maiden most fetching.


Lost in the garden

and the dark skies.

You are here and is thrown

about haphazard.

Nightmare Garden.


Mine dominion define

the rest of the evening.

I am way that way drive her mad.

There is mood and rain.

The the spirit thick about the bed.

I give of you my last. G© 

Tuesday, February 2, 2021



Fill the spaces

between your fingers

with the pictures of

a swaying



like a glowing

corpse upon a

lonely vessel

moving upstream

in a procession

of soft songs that

you have

never heard



I can sense it

like a prowling


like a shark,

like a cruel


like a hawk or

eagle, snake or

crocodile, ant

or spider:

that exact


when it is

time to strike –

hold the pen



and ink will

spill into the

shape of




saturated with






memory knows


of this


as it does

with all

other days,





before me,

those moments

will never be

lost or stolen

or loved





Walking down a strange street

in New Jersey: 7 a.m.: a wine

and brandy hangover – I

continue walking, stopping

to heave and retch and vomit

every couple of minutes: I

see a bench, rest and smoke

a cigarette and look up into

the skies and clouds of the

USA: I find a café and

order coffee, toast and eggs

and eat and after find my way

back to my room: my

neighbors are all strangers

and when I cracked-open

a beer at 8 a.m. they

looked at one- another

and frowned but said

nothing as I offered

them a bottle of

morning sunshine and

drank deep.


Sometimes, it feels like

we’re all on death-row,

no matter how true and

convincing your story –

you will die:

now it seems this Covid

horror has issued

another death warrant

for mankind:

nowhere to run or hide,

fear of going out to

the shops for food and

booze: we all look

like masked bank-


another silent enemy,

another war

and right now, who or

how the fuck it

happened doesn’t


globally we can hold

hands over this one.


Death is always close by

but even from an early age,

one could sense it within

her: she seemed to lack

everything except

intelligence and it would

prove to be fatal:

she once lived with an

asshole, who I knew and

disliked: he beat her

several times before I

found out and offered

to go beat his ass but she

told me to back-away,

that she could take care

of herself and she

knew that was bullshit:

wanting an end,

she was alone,

it must have been


withdrawing and

freezing to death

in a lonely alley,

juts a few miles from

where I write this.

John D Robinson

Nubile My fair cherub and you show me your exaggeration and wonder. I can imagine you’re built on something… It take the room and I’...