Chris Robideaux Poems

What plagues the men of plagues
And wars, when the heat of the human
Grows beyond measure?
I have a hound who knows the sound
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Panama has lovely butterflies
And butterflies have lovely Panama;
Like the Blue-Patched Eyed-Metalmark
And the Three-Banded Crescent
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What pierce this firmament, O mated with the dust?
Gladness gave his rags back to me,
And my skin easy flows in them, then jars
(Though buzzers be less fatal legion by far
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Walking compassion’s razor edge – the mystery is getting slippery – my wet trees are heavy, too.

Between the ends and the beginnings, power crouches behind the
Nursemaid of violence and replays its only tune.
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Something in the way the furrowed canyon lumbers gently down to kiss the foamy waters,

That surge Pacific-ward beside the oleander, honeysuckle and sour grass that gave me eyes outside forgetting, and tendrils atop the sepulchral night;
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A bird rushes by the window:
Quick shadow through the room.
In the dream it was crucial that we chose
Just the right products from the
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