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Joseph Robert

Updated: Wed, 13 Apr 2016 03:56 pm

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Biography

MAGAZINE/ ANTHOLOGY PUBLICATIONS: 2016 Poetry April 2016: The Stray Branch Poetry March 2016: Dead Snakes 2015 Poetry April 2015: Walking Is Still Honest (W.I.S.H) magazine Poetry March 2015: The Mind[less] Muse Poetry January 2015: Dead Snakes 2014 Poetry October 2014: The Open Mouse Poetry August 2014: The Open End Poetry August 2014: Leaves of Ink Poetry (forthcoming or defunct?) July 2014: Inclement Magazine Poetry June 2014: Eunoia Review Poetry June 2014: Bluepepper Fiction May 2014: Mad Swirl Poetry April 2014: Message in a Bottle Fiction March 2014: Farther Stars Poetry February 2014: Black Mirror Magazine 2013 Poetry October 2013: Insert Coin Here Anthology Poetry July 2013: Spinozablue (magazine on hiatus 2014) Poetry June 2013: Mudjob Poetry May 2013: Pyrokinection Poetry May 2013: The Commonline Journal Poetry April 2013: The Journal Poetry April 2013: Mistress Quickly's Bed Poetry April 2013: Unlikely Stories Poetry March 2013: Dead Snakes Poetry February 2013: Unlikely Stories 2012 Poetry October 2012: Decanto Poetry Chapbook January 2012: Realms of Man/ Metamorphosis of Woman 2011 Fiction December 2011: Kaleidotrope Joseph Robert's Reviews: Poetry review in Sabotage Reviews Fiction review in SFRevu Fiction review in Locus Magazine

Samples

Joseph Robert: The Poem Inside (First published in Spinozablue: An Eclectic Journal of the Arts, July 1 2013) POEM NOT IN ME Not a poem in me, But I am not lost for images or clever phrasings, Simply lost, Like a half-made analogy, like forgetting how to wink, So, blinking, trying to will how to know how to whistle, My lips round and, I feel I believe there are man-eaters around, I strain, listening for husky barks, Trying to tune out the police force's ambulatory sirens, Rather those dogs, cold and white, barking, I picture a mugger, who pictures me, Hearing a polar bear pad over tall drifts, somehow. Who is stalking us both? Then thirst makes me contemplate licking this igloo's roof, Freezing my tongue to its roundness, Grasping inheritable spear, I glow in oily lamp light, Whilst your self-expression takes a back seat, Content with shouting directions at the jagged dreams, Of ragged sleep, who drive in shifts down mad highways, But that's hours off still yet, and yet, I remember to breathe, When I catch myself holding my breath, Playing at my casted role of being that ascetic mystic, Caught with crumb grubby fingers, At bottom of that annihilating cookie jar, Why? How dumb am I? No, seriously, I am asking. Copyright 2013 by Joseph Robert.

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