Two poems                                                                      by Christopher Robin (courtesy of the ULA Adventures blog) 826 Valencia She is wondering if her line breaks look pretentious I can’t tell because I know nothing about line breaks Went to a reading where the kids spend $40,000 a year On grad school But we showed up on the wrong night Thank God I wouldn’t have been able to handle so much oppression Not while I have this good job staying awake From ten p.m. to eight a.m. pissing out bad coffee And the occasional poem Girlfriend drunk on the phone asks: Do I feel bad because I’m not a bum anymore And have to turn people like me Away from the hotel? But a ten hour shift is too long to spend hating myself- I will never be Dave Eggers protégé Or should I say bitch? I will never spit on people at 826 Valencia Like that one who is “the mayor” now He’s “Special Ed”- When I pick up the 826 book it reads like garbage And ask while she types her poetry into the computer: “Is Eggers making money off these kids? Don’t you think printing writing from kids who can’t write will give them a false sense of themselves? These stories look like diary scribblings…” “well he’s very good for a Special Ed kid…” “Who, Dave Eggers? And shouldn’t it be about being a good writer period? What if you’re disabled and can’t write for shit? I know I’m no idiot-savant but neither is he and where’s my book deal?” I’m not putting the kid down Don’t get me wrong In fact I was a little jealous I’ve been told by the finest doctors that I’m an idiot and have no business walking upright- When I leave she doesn’t say goodbye But calls me later Says she is trying to get into grad school And does this synopsis sound good? I don’t know Ask Hirschman when he gets back from Italy “I’ll give it a ten cuz you can dance to it” and hang up the phone XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX HECKLED IN LAS VEGAS (THE IDIOT PREVAILS) A drunk who thought I wasn’t homeless enough heckled me in the middle of my set- He’d read the interview He wanted blood… I haven’t carried a bedroll in years- He claimed Bukowski lost his talent when he got off the park bench, so I yelled into the Mic: “WHAT DO YOU WANT ME TO DO, VOMIT? YOU WANT ME TO DIE? I LIVE IN A LOW INCOME HOUSING PROJECT- I’M QUITE COMFORTABLE- I HOPE TO GET OUT SOMEDAY- IF I GET WELL” rattled and nervous, I read Wide Open Fool, the angriest I have ever read it- said, “Buy my shit,” and sat down It felt like a bomb- I wasn’t getting the laughs I’m used to, They didn’t want my levity- Afterwards people started coming up to me asking to buy my book Money was coming at me from everywhere- I sold every book I had In a gesture of companionship the heckler brought two wine glasses over to me and set them down- I don’t drink! He yelled at me some more And walked back to his friends I thought of telling him the job I had to look forward to back home Was cleaning up llama shit in Bonny Doon- I could have told him I’m King of the llama shit King of the old ladies in the trailer parks Where I crawl under houses and vacuum up dead termites- The ailing windup toy of suburban housewives And master of lawnmowers- Bright eyed with mud on my face From the wheels of the tractor when it rains... Instead we went back to our cozy room on the strip- I had sex with the Muse before she passed out drunk From all the free booze- I had 82 dollars in my pocket I stuck a twenty-dollar bill in the nickel machine….thinking It’s too bad that guy never spent a day on the streets himself He will probably never drink himself to such good fortune