Bobby Williams


Ray is a poem
with fewer teeth than most.
I swear the total varies.

Dirt encrusted dungarees
that have never been anywhere
but right here.

His hands are like two stone crabs
busted on the beach,
choking on the sun.

Too dumb to be angry.
Ray is simply mad.
He points at petty injustices,
squishes the cigarette in his hand.

When the day is over,
Ray goes home,
sits on his brown couch,
smokes his dope,

His wee body bleeds into the next day.
He does wake up.
He does not shower.
Puts on his same red cap,

A Super Sad Poem

The saddest poem ever told is about an unwanted hotdog.
Rolling all alone
along heated chrome rollers
in the corner of a Sunoco
hours after lunch.

The only Muslim clerk in this tiny town
worries that it may be he
and the meat potpourri
spinning into infinity.

Brown, warm and deplorable.

He can hear the drone of the chrome contraption as it rolls.
The poor dog pops and spits louder than the steady rain outside
and blends with the ticking clock overhead.

No one comes here anymore.

The whirling dervish,
this brainless meat tube,
two bunless bastards,
turned terrible companions,
trying to make it through another day.

Author Portrait

Oh my goodness. Bobby Williams is floating up in the ether, soaking up the sun—an avid stranger in search of the pop trash myth. You may read fiction and essays created by this awkward, detached sociophobe in Tammy Journal, Moronic Ox, The Montreal Review, Ben Jonson Journal and elsewhere. You may read a novel, also written by BW, by ordering that novel, Two is for You, from the Open Books website, or a website called Amazon dot com. The author would also like to note that he is on a serious Sheryl Crow kick.