The Poetry of Bob

I’ve been pedal to the metal for so long this month, I haven’t even stopped to breathe, so when I realized I hadn’t entered Agnes in the Ritas, I went flipping through the e-mails Bob had sent me to find the one with his RWA membership number on it, moving at the speed of light because I had to get back to Dogs and Goddesses. But the funny thing was, as I flipped through literally hundreds of e-mails, they started to look like poetry. What had been annoying–would it kill him to write a whole paragraph?–became Art.

And so I present the Poetry of Bob, all complete e-mails, in their entirely, punctuated and spaced just as he sent them to me, the Poet Laureate of the Green Berets or, as he told me in one e-mail:

that’s me
a senstive soul
a poet-warrior

They’re really beautiful in their brevity and complexity:

I am
you. Well. who knows.

Full of paradox and rhythm:

not crashing yet
I said before I crash

Full of imagery:

blue paint
blue carpet
not good

Not afraid of non-sequiturs:

you and the vampires
i’m going to bed

Accepting of life’s reversals:

the system failed

Sometimes epic:

it’ll be fine
we’ll get rejected
end up living under a bridge
the river will flood


Sometimes terse:

you win

What I love about these is that they’re entire e-mails, and he put the space breaks in where they are here. He just does it naturally. Of course I have ten thousand more that are bitching about publishing and making fun of me, but the fact that these gems are in there, too, well, it just gives me faith in the poetry in the man’s soul.

Bob. Poet-Warrior. The man who wrote:

Sounds good.
But we’re still doomed.
Doomed I tell you.


Book done yet?

You read them here first.

Addendum: It occurs to me that I may not have myself clear:
Bob does not think he’s writing poetry.
Bob is just answering my e-mails.