Every day I come home,
spill coins on the countertop.
Metallic tailings,
out of the mines of Commerce.
Gobbets from Grendle, the quarters,
devoured in threes and fours
by the laundry machine.
Nickles are thicker.
Harder to get rid of but handy with the vagrants.
You imagine they might think them quarters.
Dimes slide right through creases in my palm,
into the hungry idiot mouths of the parking meters.
The copperheads coil endlessly.
Pockets, car, ashtrays and drawers.
Rattling snakes in the vaccum.
I leave trails of them in parking lots,
Where some(lucky!)one
will put them back into the bowels of Commerce.
Welcome!
The poems in this beautifully bound book are a result of over twenty years of observations. Observations of the world around us and on the telecommunications network. All of the hate, love, heroism, disasters, and those who help.
Beautif
Robin Ouzman Hislop's poetry is certainly in dialogue with some of the key architects of the 'poetics of indeterminacy' – both the Modernist strands represented by the likes of Beckett and Stein, and the postmodernist strands represented, initially,
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