There’s an Addict in the House
  
 There’s an Addict in the House and they’re
 Cracking Down all over town.
 We have programmed him to report at First Light but 
 Confidence is running low.
 Hey Man!
 Given the opportunity he will ruin our scene.
 Somewhere his ancestral home still stands.
 Let’s stash him there.
 In the place where the wind comes up from the Lake.
 Where Elders drive by and Mourners high-five.
 Where resolutions are covered in cellophane.
 Cold in a bowl.
 What will happen to him is anyone’s guess.
 Caesar felt the first knife and thought it was the last.
  
  
 The Funcle
  
 I like hanging with the Funcle.
 He knows the waitress from Woolworth’s and can
 Charm her at Will.
 On cue he gets cheese with his pie.
 Someday soon he will cup her breasts.
 His brothers are evil.
 The women they date are 
 Shiny and Pink.
 Someday soon they will win First Prize.
  
 I like hanging with the Funcle.
 Once we caught a pickerel the length of a gar.
 Its bony teeth bit phantom steel and we
 Smashed its Head on the State Line Bridge.
 His brothers are virtuous and
 Join the Choir.
 Their signs light up the dark.
 Who was it that told them The End Is Near?
  
 I like hanging with the Funcle.
 He’s writing a poem called Saxophone Heaven and
 Posting a Selfie when the Big Hand hits Twelve.
 His brothers have delusions of adequacy.
 Their history bleeds out whenever it can.
  
  
 Epiphany
  
 Razor Sharp.
 In their Clarence Darrow clothes.
 Guilty was their game.
 Turn and Fire on the Count of One.
 Did you do it?
 No.
 Are you certain?
 No.
 Darkness at dawn.
 The cell is as hot as the Devil’s Coat.
 Down the hall.
 Old Sparky.
 Licking his chops.
 Hissing. 
 Throbbing with Juice.
 Did you do it?
 Yes.
 Are you certain.
 Yes.
 I roll up my mattress.
 Wait for the tray.
 Eggs.
 In the shape of a noose.
 A turd on the edge of the plate.  
  
  
 Take That Commie Shrimp Dick
  
 Beans in the Bunker.
 Back on the Menu.
 Mambo Sweet Papi.
 Havana Cigar.
 We’re Deep Underground.
 We’ll never Be Found.
 Take That!
 Commie Shrimp Dick. 
 Both Bobby and Jack.
 Love Marilyn Monroe.
 It’s Time to Attack.
 Get On with The Show.
 Whose Rockets are Hard?
 Who’s Let Down their Guard?
 Take That!
 Commie Shrimp Dick.
 Back in the Bunker.
 Havana Cigar.
 Your Bomb was a Clunker.
 Didn’t even Make Par.
 There’s Lice in your Beard.
 Top Secret.
 We’re Cleared.
 Take That!
 Commie Shrimp Dick.  
  
  
 Check Please
  
 Front Door.
 It’s locked.
 It’s locked.
 I think.
 It’s locked.
 Knock Knock.
 We’re in 
 The Pink.
 The Lights.
 Bark Bark.
 They’re on.
 They’re off.
 They’re on. 
 King Kong. 
 The Lights.
 Ping Pong.
 The Stove.
 Dear Friend.
 We’re at 
 The End.
 It’s on.
 It’s off.
 Let’s check.
 Zoloft.
  
 Metal.
  
 Ticking.
  
 Heat.
  
 Cherry Red.
  
 They’ll find me in the morning.
  
 Gripped in pain they will wonder.

Charlie Robert is a writer and poet living in Silicon Valley. His work is Punchy. Stark. Peopled with characters heroically flawed. Addicts and Taoists. Heidis and Hitlers. Beasts. Caged and uncaged. He has been published in various Literary Journals / Small Press Anthologies including Milk and Cake Press, Iconoclast, NOMADartx, Rat’s Ass Review, The Rye Whiskey Review, Synchronized Chaos, Sacred Chickens, Orchards Poetry Journal, Pikers Press, and is forthcoming in others. Find him at: https://www.charlierobert.com/