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christopher "beef burgundy" robbins

Christopher "Beef Burgundy" Robbins is 30, lives in atlantic city, new jersey, where he works in a casino. He has no MFA. Sometimes he drinks beer, sometimes wine, oftentimes water (evian).


the sermon was long today
the salmon wrung wreaths
the salesman blew meter maids
       i blew the north wind south
and now you're in trouble
with me with and with and with
mailman                 a postcard sent


In Praise of Mother

You looked the interpreter of dreams with your wide green eyes,
lily pads floating in a sea of freckled whiteness.
Amazing you didn't dry up when the sun surprised you
         with its cold brilliance
         calling you every name in the book.

         The name that meant the most you stashed away
         deep in your womb, your wonderful stony womb,
         with its dark, moldy crevices where even I hid away
          on those days I longed for sainthood.

What happened to those dreams you birthed like slumbering babies
scooped from the belly like the insides of a pumpkin
--all pulp and seeds? Did you hold them to your tit,
let them latch on and learn to love the baked earth and mud
or did you take it the wrong way?
         The way the lungs
         take wrong the taste of water and seaweed.

         We buried you in praise of Mother and her milk,
         shook limbs and sweet breath from your bloated body
         marrying you to dirt, to coffeegrounds, to eggshells.

Don't you wish sometimes you could share your breath
with the wilderness and your lover? Not the first time
you needed me--I still have the remainder of those visits
         tattooed on my skin:
         a circus, two violins, and a smile.

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