SELECTED POETRY

by
Rob Woodard

AFTER THEM ALL I GO*

And my heart left me—bitter from its detachment
from you—chasing the young Mexican girl who
wasn’t adverse to a little white guy fun
before she settled down
to her life of novellas and children
one after another, to be raised
in a part of Los Angeles
that I’m sure would never quite accept me
or my dangerous words, and more importantly,
all that I was willing to sacrifice
to give them life …

Then my dreams changed course and followed
the pale girl of lithe sway and Norwegian
blue eyes, whose snatch was as impossibly blonde
as the hair on her head, a situation I of course couldn’t
let pass without close inspection of tongue
and fingers and dreams of babies even blonder
than she that neither of us really could
ever want in our deeply European search
for perfect lonely glory …

On her heels was the “black” one (who was actually
coco brown), who was much younger than I, who liked
to call me daddy, and finally told me outright
that she’d wished her father would have kept
spanking her for a few more years,
until the full flower of her puberty would have allowed
her to truly enjoy the “punishment” she felt
so richly deserved …

After her came the Australian redhead
who truly loved me like some knight of yore
but I could only collect like a rare butterfly
with pussy hair of rust so glowing that
I’d sometimes turn on the light
just to make sure it was real,
after letting my mouth play
connect-the-dots with freckles
to create maps that led everywhere
but to her and me …

And then … they just kept coming—one after
another, like a straight-girls pride parade
or a free-floating harem,
all luscious in their own ways
and all not you:

the only one I’ve ever loved
and the one who could not
love me
back
to
save
her
life

* Inspired by Pablo Neruda’s poem “El Inconstante” from his collection ‘Los Vesos Del Capitàn’.

© Rob Woodard

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THE BALLAD OF ROB WOODARD (Age Forty-Two)

I turned forty-two a couple months back—and I’m
definitely beginning to feel my age

More importantly, I’m beginning to feel the expectations
of my age from those around me,
those with houses and children, worries about
college rankings and costs, retirement funds,
and no knowledge of what it’s like to depend upon
on an old truck with two-hundred-and sixty-thousand
miles on it to get them around town
and beyond

Rob Woodard: poet

Or to put it another way,

Rob Woodard: crumbling little apartment in east Long Beach
dweller, well educated man who still has to bust his ass
to make a buck because he can’t face the waste-of-life
happiness evaporators most people call “jobs” or worse
“careers” while there is still sunshine to soak up,
oceans to contemplate, women diaphanous
like renaissance paintings with breasts and hips
awaiting touch, cool mornings to wake into from
here to Seattle via Kamchatka and back,
dreams of Europes and Polynesias that could
never possibly be, and life to be lived and love
to be loved—like a full syringe: one more shot
will get the job done, of this all poets are sure …

(I mean, have you ever contemplated the tragedy
of Gregory Corso with a pretty, freckled-faced
blonde girl far too young for you while sitting
in a Thai restaurant on a cool Long Beach
winter evening?—And if not why not?)

What I guess I’m trying to say is that I think Thoreau
was right to put the brakes on and just LIVE,
that Henry Miller should have gone to Paris
years before, and that I have been truthful all
along in what I’ve rejected—because my poverty
is what it should be, who I am,
self-aggrandizement and all …

a place in which I can romance out my poet words
and too try to LIVE,
like the Thoreau,
but with less
clothing
more
women
and hopefully
much more time

© Rob Woodard

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POEM TO A GIRL WORKING IN A COFFEE SHOP

Behind the counter at the coffee shop today is a girl
I’ve never seen here before
Part Chinese, I’m guessing,

short, dark, plump, and curvy in the way
that cute short girls are often plump and curvy,
with a round face and a still boy-crazy
smile as she hands me my coffee,
even though she’s probably in her early
twenties at least …

And as I keep my eyes on her while sitting down
at a table several feet away, I start wondering
how I can possibly tell her that all I’m now thinking about
is kneeling before her and licking her vaguely Asian
sparse-haired pussy,
while she runs hers fingers
thru my hair and makes the soft cooing moans
I dream she must make in such a situation?

How can I tell her that because of her I’m suddenly
almost believing in love again?

Conversation or letters won’t work:

Only the poem has a chance

That’s kind of why they exist

© Rob Woodard