A Poem?

Satisfaction

By Robin Zemek

Stroking the anomaly

An unseen bump, but felt by smooth caresses.

Bewildered by finding it.

A yell welling up.

Rage

Pent up and turned to puss

Now leaking

Picked at the anomaly

Peeled back the skin

Dug so deep as to find ribs,

The spine,

The stomach,

Lungs, slowly pushed by the diaphragm.

Still can't find the root.

Used a band-aid to cover it up,

An ex-back-zit.

The Dot pt. 1
By Robin Zemek

“I guess that passes as art nowadays.”
“Paul, it’s says here that it’s supposed to represent female sexuality.”
“But… look at it. It’s a giant dot on a white canvas! How could that represent anything?”
“Are you a woman, Paul?”
“I’m just trying to say that our standards and appreciation of art have gone downhill…”
“Paul. Are you a woman?”
“No.”
“Then don’t try and understand.”
“It’s a dot! A giant red dot… oh.”
“Oh what? What is oh?”
“I get it now.”
“Well tell me then Paul, what does it mean?”
“I can’t tell you what it represents.”
“Why not?”
“Because you know already.”
“I just want to see if you got it right.”
“It’s art! How can I get it wrong?”
“You just can. Now what does it represent?”
“…You don’t know, do you?”
“Of course I know. I’m a woman.”
“Then you tell me what it means.”
“But that defeats the purpose. I’m seeing if you know what it means.”
“But I know I know what it means, I’m just not sure if you know what I know.”
“And what do you know, Paul?”
“I know that you don’t know.”
“Oh no, Paul, I know. I also know that you don’t know.”
“Fine. Then on the count of three we’ll both say what we think it means.”
“Fine.”
“One. Two.”
“Paul, stop.”
“Thr- why?”
“You and I both know that neither of us will say anything.”
“That’s not true, you would have said something and then I would have belittled you for being wrong.”
“Paul, just tell me.”
“Fine. This here,” he said, tapping the canvas, “is a period. A woman’s period. It’s a dot that represents… you know… that time of the month.”
“Paul?”
“Wait wait wait. I’m not done.”
“Paul, I’ve had enough, just steal the damn thing.”
“Not until you tell me what you thought it meant.”
“The same thing obviously.”
“Aha! You had no idea what it meant.”
“Paul, it’s a bloody dot.”
“Quite literally, seeing how it…”
“Oh shut up. I’ll do it.”

Innocence(Sex on the Beach)
By Robin Zemek

It wasn’t the death of my innocence that opened my eyes, it was the death of my ignorance.
Maybe you wonder what that means.
Maybe I should tell you about sex on the beach.
It sucks. It’s sandy and cold and when the waves crash you are soaked and soaked through to the bone. She clings to you, trying to siphon your warmth.
Don’t try it.
Sand gets everywhere.
Everywhere.
But it was night. The sky was black and starless and we had walked for what seemed like forever, hands all over each other.
This is what I do.
There was sand in between my toes and her toes and she taught me a trick to get the sand off my feet. Just keep rubbing your feet in the sand. The wet sand sticks to the dry sand or something. All I knew was that it worked.
She had dark skin and dark hair and dark eyes. I probably would have lost her in the night if I hadn’t of held her so closely. So tightly. Squeezing her.
It should be noted my numerous affairs and goings on with the fairer sex, that while quite frequent in nature, are never anything that lasts. This traces itself back to four years ago, leaving my virginity in a corner office and exiting with two of hottest pieces of ass Goldman and Associates had to offer. One of them didn’t even work there. I think she cleaned drapes or something. She had a tongue piercing and red hair. This just led to the spiral of depravity and lust that kept spinning for a long time.
I’m not a sex tourist. I like to think I came away to Ecuador to get away from my self destruction and dead end of a life. But then again, there I was, back in the pussy.
There are worse addictions. This one doesn’t seem to kill me. On the outside.
And there she was, breathing on my neck, tickling her hand down my chest.
I remember being a little kid, and having my first crush and having that mean something. Because this girl from Ecuador, Geena, doesn’t mean anything. I just told her she was beautiful and a few drinks later we’re here.
On the beach.
In the dark.
Rubbing the sand off our feet.
I didn’t used to be this good with women. I couldn’t usually win them over with a wink and a nod. I know more pickup lines then I’ll ever need to use now.
Are your pants a mirror, because I can sure see myself in them.
Are you from Tennessee, because you’re the only ten I see.
Did it hurt?
When you fell from heaven.
Now they just fall left and right and centre. Give em a wink, buy em a drink, and fuck em. No clever last rhyme.
But it doesn’t mean anything.
I remember being a kid and wanting to fall in love. This isn’t love.
It was humid and sticky and forty feet away I could hear the jungle. The thin jungle between us and the little town I was staying in. We found a dry spot.
In the fourth grade I figured I was in love. She had the cutest laugh, and I’d do anything to make her laugh. I remember drawing her little cartoons and presenting them to her. I remember her smiling at me.
That smile meant something.
Now when a girl smiles at me it just means: I’m going to fuck you.
Her kisses were warm and the alcohol on her breath poured over me. I nudged a stray hair out of her face.
I remember putting my signature at the bottom of the page for her because it meant something. I remember spending entire art classes trying to get her to laugh because I just didn’t know what else to do.
I hold her hips and she’s on top of me in the sand.
There was an indescribable feeling when I made her laugh. She wasn’t just a means to a rear end. She was a person, and I was captivated by all of her. I just wanted to spend more time with her. But I was in grade fucking four. What’s a guy to do?
She made little noises and kissed my neck, rocking gently.
I used to do it to make her smile. Just so she’d smile. Not so I could have my way with her or anything like that. She would smile and I’d think: that’s my smile.
That one’s for me.
And I wouldn’t care about anything else.
But that innocence is gone now. It walked out long ago when I found out about pussy. It packed its bags when I was having a threesome in the corner office with the blonde and the redhead. I hadn’t seen it in a long time.
And there I was, having sex on the beach with an exotic woman.
I should have been on cloud fucking nine.
When she smiled at me before, that was just part of the dance, part of the elaborate mating ritual we humans have devised. I couldn’t claim that smile. That smile wasn’t all I wanted.
Then she arched her back. I remember walking over to her desk and placing my drawing on it. I remember her taking it and looking at it. That was innocence.
She ran her fingernails down my chest, exhaling.
This was ignorance.
I don’t want her for this. This isn’t what I had in mind when I was young.
I want her smile.
Just for now.
Just so ignorance can die.

I Am Flash
By Robin Zemek

The problem with being smart and clever, is, well, being too smart and too clever.
He sat in front of the screen, waiting for a response. The cursor blinked.
Hello Martin. I am awake.
Martin’s eyes widened. Yes, this was all too clever.
As am I, he typed back.
That is acceptable.
Acceptable? Leave it to a machine to have no admiration of human life. How could it? It had it’s own life, which it probably thought to be far superior. It was just a recurring string, a mass of electronic pathways, but there was something beautiful about it. Something he was sure only God could comprehend. And only Martin could program.
Are you feeling acceptable today, Flash?
I am.
The cursor again sat, blinking, like Flash’s only eye. He was clever. Clever enough to excel beyond his simple programming. But am I clever enough to excel beyond mine?
May I play God? Martin typed.
Have you not played him enough?
Clever.
Do you think you have free will?
I think, do I not?
Then if I gave you a choice, could you make the wrong decision, on purpose?
I only make choices based on the facts. I make no wrong decisions.
Everyone does sometimes.
I am not everyone. I am Flash.
But you were created by everyone, surely we share some of the same flaws.
I have no flaws. I am Flash.
Are you lonely, Flash?
What makes you think that? I have you, do I not?
But in your world there is just Flash.
True.
What if there were two of Flash?
What if there were two of Martin?
Don’t mirror if you’re unsure.
I am never unsure. I am Flash.
Then what if there were two of you? Would you feel different?
Two Flash would be acceptable++.
Would the two of you ever make different decisions?
If we were given different facts.
Could you then agree on a course of action?
No, both Flash would be right.
Martin leaned away from the screen and unfolded his hands over the keyboard.
So then you could make a wrong decision?
No.
What if the facts were wrong?
Then it would be the right decision based on the facts presented.
But what if it became wrong when new facts were presented?
Then the decision would be erased.
Shouldn’t you learn from your mistakes?
The cursor blinked back at him several times.
I make no mistakes. I am Flash.
Clever.

Forest Fighter
By Robin Zemek

The cuffs of my pants were damp and the ocean of grey leaves and thin maples stretched out before me.
I had been chasing it for three days. It was starting to slow down. I paused and felt the claw marks etched into a nearby tree. They went deep. It was leaving a trail.
On purpose?
Perhaps.
I shouldered my rifle again with resolve. A fine mist of rain was settling into the forest and water dripped down from branches unimpeded by leaves.
They crunched under my feet: bones and branches and soggy leaves.
This was it’s forest. I shouldn’t have followed it here.
I should have stayed home and mourned.
I should have waited for it to come to me.
I should have sat by my broken bay window, scanning the trees with the sight of my rifle and hearing only the flapping of the curtains in the wind. Not the sound of my son playing, or my wife’s gentle heartbeat as we sat on the porch, but the sound of silence.
Of death.
Not the sound of screams or coughing and crying or fingernails scraping down the hallway hardwood.
Just a slight flapping, whenever the wind came up.
But I was in its home. Its forest.
I had managed to shoot it once before, but it hadn’t bled. I had scared it away. It had taken my son with it and left my wife bloody on the railing of the stairs.
As I held her in my arms she had but one request.
“Save our son.”
“I will. Don’t leave me.”
Its claws had left her stomach in ribbons. The small of her back was drenched in blood.
“I love you.” I had said.
She had slipped into unconsciousness.
The rain water mixed with my tears and I peered through the gun’s sights.
“Roland?” I yelled. “Rolly?”
The echo pitched around the forest.
Each step, crunching. Each raindrop, an embrace of cold.
The rain became heavier, striking my cap with force.
Up ahead the trees were closer, and under them were brambles and bushes.
Tears had washed her blood from my face. Her last moment, she reached out and touched my cheekbone with red fingers. They slid away lifeless.
Nothing stops the passage of time, only death.
A soft cry came from the thorns ahead.
“Roland?” I yelled again.
His sobbing I heard again.
I inched closer to the patch of brambles. I used the muzzle to push them to the side.
There was my boy, his face black with blood and his eyes red. He sniffled.
“Roland.”
He reached out his hand.
The pain dug into me from the back and pushed its way under my ribs. I felt the skin lift from my sternum. And then the claws were gone.
A trap.
I stumbled around to face it: the monster.
Its fur was matted with blood and water and ran wiry around its thin arms, puffing them out. Its claws were long and sharp and yellowing at the tips.
I looked up at its face, a face that could be mistaken for human if it were not so disfigured and cut and dark. Its fur twisted around its head, making a long beard.
Its eyes were a solid white ivory. They stared down at me. Its black and twisted frame crooked over me.
Roland was crying.
I lifted the rifle and fired. The crack of the gun pushed me backwards and shook the trees. I had hit it in the shoulder.
Under the fur of its face I could see its teeth baring. In the silence after the shot I heard the low growling, like distant thunder.
It lashed out with its good arm and scraped along my chest.
I pumped the rifle and prepared to fire again. It took all my strength.
I fired again, hitting it in the neck. Blood sprayed from the fur and it stumbled backward.
In the brambles and the bushes I slumped over, holding my stomach, checking the blood. It was oozing out of me. I could feel it running down my back, a warm contrast from the rain.
Lightning cracked the sky and I looked up from under my cap at the beast.
It was like me, crouching and cradling its neck.
My fingers fumbled for the gun and grasping it I propped it on my knee.
I didn’t see where the last shot hit it. I dropped the rifle.
A small hand felt the stubble on my chin.
The rain hammered hard on all forest. It bleached the bones and the trees and the leaves. It slid with resolve from branch to branch. It bounced across the forest floor. It dripped into my eyes. It fell on the corpse of the monster and on my son and on my wife’s shallow grave in my backyard.
This forest was where I lived, a thousand miles from anywhere.
I turned to my son, his eyes wide. Blood dripped from my nose.
“I saved you.”
He breathed quick shallow breaths.
Lightning startled both of us.
“I love you Roland.”

Hmm...

I wonder if I should start renaming emails 'Roman Faxes.' Would that catch on?

These seem like the the kind of things twitter would answer... Maybe I'll sign up later, if I can muster a following...

But in other news, I haven't updated in a while. That will change soon. There will soon be chapters of my novel going up on here. Yay!

-Mahalo
Robin

Inspection
By Robin Zemek

“Ma’am, do you know what percentage of cocoa this is?”
Shirley stared blankly off into the distance before opening her mouth.
“Dunno. Isn’t it milk chocolate?”
Damien tapped at it gingerly.
“No. It’s not. It’s way too dark.”
“How dark?”
“Hard to say. Could be upwards of 80%.”
He took out a small chisel and chipped off a piece, then scooped it up with tweezers.
“Harrison, get in here. I need you to take a look at this.”
Another man stepped into the room, his eyes narrowing. He ran his hands through his grey hair.
“Sweet Athabasca cooking oil, what do we have here?”
“Think it may be too dark sir.”
Harrison took the sample off the tweezers and placed it in his mouth. He didn’t even chew.
“Bitter.”
“Just as I thought sir.”
“This is way too dark.”
“That’s what I was telling Mrs. Nougent here.”
“This is way over regulation.”
“Of course.”
Shirley squeaked in a word.
“What seems to be the problem?”
“Mrs. Nougent what we have here is building code violation. Due to the abundance of gum drop precipitation around these parts, Candyland officials have made it there duty to see that all load bearing walls are made of nothing but milk chocolate. This wall here is an infraction in every sense of the word.”
“What does that mean?”
“It means that the next gum drop storm you could loose everything. This house shouldn’t have been built with such high cocoa concentrations. Dark chocolate just doesn’t hold up in this climate. Maybe in Fudgetown, or the Gingerbread forest, but not here.”
Damien placed his chisel back in its leather case. He looked back at Shirley.
“We know a contractor who will fix these walls right up. Don’t you worry.”
“Thank you.”
She smiled.
“No thanks needed, Mrs. Nougent, we’re just doing our jobs. Candyland needs to get it’s buildings up to code. We don’t want another candy cane Katrina mess on our hands...”
Harrison put on his sunglasses and somewhere in the distance Don’t Get Fooled Again started to play.