The Poetry Warrior (c) Abigail Beaudelle - 2008.
All Poetry and artwork (c) the respective artists.
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A Peak Experience
Rob Plath

sitting in early morning
staring at the kitchen counter
everything silent
the microwave
the blender
the toaster
the coffee machine
the radio
all just resting there
like stage props
replicas
without real workable
guts within
even the refrigerator
is momentarily quiet
nothing is gurgling
or humming
or mincing
or popping
& the cupboards sit or hang there
their doors & drawers appearing glued shut
their silver knobs seeming
ornamental rather than practical
like a pocket on a coat
that is merely for show
& the only thing that
is moving & causing any noise
is the clock's big hand
making its way around its face
a steady ticking
an endless passage
its innards are alive
turning & turning & turning
W/Every Third Thought My
Head Explodes

my
adam's
apple
is
a
hand
grenade

its
pin
is
released
every
time
i swallow
my
pain
Rob Plath has published a shitload of poems
in the small press.  He hates university magazines
and thinks they are nothing but colostomy bags.
He will be 39 in January when this bio will appear
in the zine, but for now as he writes this he remains
38 years old, just like the caliber of the gun.