I live, read, and write in South Carolina in the Southeastern United States. I enjoy writing poetry and journaling, but my first love is reading. Some of my favorite writers include Charles Bukowski, Jack Kerouac, Larry Brown, Milan Kundera, Cormac McCarthy, Henry Miller, Erskine Caldwell, John Steinbeck, Ernest Hemingway, Leo Tolstoy, Pat...
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I live, read, and write in South Carolina in the Southeastern United States. I enjoy writing poetry and journaling, but my first love is reading. Some of my favorite writers include Charles Bukowski, Jack Kerouac, Larry Brown, Milan Kundera, Cormac McCarthy, Henry Miller, Erskine Caldwell, John Steinbeck, Ernest Hemingway, Leo Tolstoy, Pat Conroy, Stephen King, John Grisham, Gabriel Garcia Marquez, Neil Gaiman, Jhumpa Lahiri, Barbara Kingsolver, Billie Letts, William Blake, John Keats, Pablo Neruda, Allen Ginsberg, Charles Baudelaire, Rumi, and a number of others.
My rating system is slightly different from the standard Shelfari one:
5 Stars = Excellent. Favorite.
4 Stars = Very Good. A candidate for a reread at a later date.
3 Stars = Average.
2 Stars = Fair at best- wouldn't reread or recommend it
1 Star = Absolutely hated it. Unreadable. Rarest ranking- Equivalent to a "F" in school.
Poetry by Jason Robinson
"My Steel Toes"
oxblood in color
Doc Martens
these boots i wore
across America and
back
i had the idea that
my footwear
could double as
a weapon
or as a work tool
in the labor pool
in my city
of destination
when i was
broke
drunk
evil
and alone
these boots
i slept in
i dared not
take them off
for fear of theft
my boots survived
San Diego
skid row in Los Angeles
stinky Greyhound
across west Texas
and the pregnant girl
with rotten teeth
scratched they
brought me back to
Carolina
they sit in my closet now
ploished and
revered
"Morning in San Francisco"
suddenly awake
from a fitful sleep
I could hear noise
from the green gulch
where the low humming mowers
were being readied for their trade
but in the fog
my spirit mistook the sounds
for bagpipes playing
a mournful dirge
for a funeral possession
across the hill
though I knew no one
had died that day
my soul still ached
as if they had
"Graveyard Stew"
fifteen dollars for los angeles
one a.m. walking through
the filfh of skid row
alternating sides of the street
as i guaged the menacing
dangers of the characters
on either side of the street
i see a white girl in
a sea of black faces
she is wearing a padded coat
i reach the core of downtown
i look in vain for the subway
my feet cracked and blistered
aghast i find pershing square
along seventh street
the plaza was teeming
with rats- sisters of cockroaches
as urbanity's nastiest dweller
menacing yet doe-eyed
pink-tailed grey-bodied rodents
scurrying about
F*CKING DISGUSTING
i find the subway
beleaguered by the prospect
of impending homelessness
i'll use my backpack
as a pillow in a park
in hollywood
i'll dream of rats
"The Subordinates"
in my town
the north side
is the bad side
obliterated, grubby
it's the side on which i live
where marlboro miles
and lotto tickets
serve as currency
for those who are
bad at math
where finance concerns
practice extortion-
quick cash on car titles
where on one corner
the laundromat is
opposite the liquor store
where the the schizophrenics
wander the street
begging for change
where king cobra
is 99 cents and
cold all day
and the dopeman is
24/7 (cash only)
where white faces
join black faces
waiting for the 3rd shift
at the plant to commence
living on $7.25 per hour
and no benefits
or waiting for a check
at the first of the month
bleak is the north side
of my town
or on some side
of yours
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