This is my eighth book of poems. This time it's published by Good Japan Press:

Volume 4 comes from one of our favorite pessimists and all-around swell guy, Rob Plath.

His chapbook, Nicotine Scribblings from a Hammock in the Void, is now available for purchase.

Price - $ 7.00 (includes shipping within continental US) - If you buy 2 copies the cost is $12.00 - Buy 5 and it's a $27.00.

Make payments to agboerum@yahoo.com via PayPal. If you do not have PayPal access, please write us at GoodJapanPress@gmail.com for more information.

All orders will ship September 15th and arrive within 3 business days.

****I will have some copies as well. If you want a signed one. Let me know. As you know I am selling these. That's how it works. So if you're interested please email me here about payment method. I have Paypal or you can send a check or concealed cash. $7 includes shipping (add $1 more for outside USA). I will sign each book and draw my trademark skull & crossbones for you .


Thanks,

Rob

anti-marathon

i remember one time
i was drunk
in my tiny apartment
riding my bicycle
around the livingroom
in circles
friends stopped over
they saw me
w/cigarette in mouth
run into my stereo
& knock it off
the stand
onto the floor
you shouldn't treat
yr stuff like that
they told me
but they couldn't
help but laugh
& look envious
i then took
a handful of wooden
matches & tossed them
into the air
they hit
the ceiling
& rained down on me
i kept riding
w/match sticks
in my unwashed hair
a cloud of smoke
around my head
the spokes spinning
& spinning
the handlebars turning
& turning
but my shape going
nowhere
yet i was laughing
laughing harder than
i ever did before

thick raised lines

i don't
believe
in
sutures

i
believe
in
open
wounds
until
they
grow
scabs

i
believe
in
scars

thick
raised
lines

i don't
believe
in
smooth
shaved
surfaces

forgetful
flesh

skin
w/amnesia

i believe
in
bodies
that
can
be
brailled

like
poems
for
the
blindman

the paralyzed poem

this poem is
so self-conscious
it is seriously
contemplating
suicide

it daydreams about
diving off the
goddamn page

becoming an unpoem
a jumble of sentences
a pile of mere letters

i'm trying to
get it to be
like other
well-adjusted
poems

unself-conscious

a poem that
humps the NOW

but this poem
has hamlet-itis

it doesn't give shit
about
its readers
or the writer

i keep pressing it
to experience more

but all it does it is
ponder the curves
& 90 degree angles
of its letters

it thinks subject matter
is meaningless

it says god is
inertia

it prefers writer's
block

this poem is
paralyzed

what this poem needs
is a bottle
of whiskey
& some smokes

but it's being
a stubborn sober
pussy

the ratio

3 billion cells
die
inside of you
every 30 seconds

it takes 15 minutes
or so for me
to knock out a poem

90 billion cells
die
per poem

i slowly counter
the ceasing of cells
by composing

but the ratio
is absurd

so half the time
i say
fuck it
& join the
mutiny
inside my
body
by uncorking
the wine

the alphabet
doesn't taste
nearly
as
good

the dead breed more than goddamn rabbits

the dead fuck the dead

incestuous zombies strolling
everywhere

in beds of the dead
putrid meat pounds putrid meat

the dead fuck the dead
& they keep multiplying

inbred dead children
running everywhere

no escape whatsoever
from these roaming cemeteries

disembodied motherfucker

stomach cramps
migraines
back pains
cigarette burns
lesions

all of these
are at least
durable
b/c you know
where
they are

you can
touch
them

rub a salve
on them

but
ah, emptiness

emptiness
is the real
bitch

emptiness
is
non-corporeal

coming
from
all directions

a disembodied
motherfucker

sorta like god

but it
actually
exists