The Perelman Building

Closed at five

not available

come back another day


this was the last

day of membership

will not renewal


you should of called




no words of explanation

no nods of resignation

we all…just…work here


when does a place

go from a passion

to a use of time

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Don’t Use Pen

Sharply shortly said she

Don’t use pen

to write


I was taking notes

of art

to later write of


don’t use pen

don’t use heart

don’t write




don’t read write breathe

there is no day past today

no door beyond tonite-


From 3-1-09

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Edward Charles Tarbull

Edward Charles Tarbell



Thirty eight years in two centuries

Classical/ impressionist

Boston /Europe

and what lies unknown 


In the Orchard, 1891

his wife, others,

now disremembered


What would he have learned now

Where would his art be


What would he have taught

 and what would we have learned 


Beyond  name


what also lies beyond

now remaining unspoken 

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The Death Cart

Note; I’ve found a lot of work of mine on email, cd, and floppy discs?!

As I learn how to transfer, it will appear. Rather then spending time scanning.

The Death Cart.  Gallery 110

Carretta de la Muerte

Artist unknown New Mexico 1880-1990


So little is known

though probably a Penitent

Death  was paraded through the streets

to remind


This was an age before

the clash and crash of media

words, then, would not suffice

see the results of not being saved


Hutchinson, Kansas has the

Death Cart by Ben Ortega

That was the Penitente Brotherhood

with the dead  a woman, Dona Sebastiana


Then there is Luis Tapia’s Smithsonian

Horacio Valdez of St. Louis and…

this is Philadelphia

Where we need not reminders of death


of course there is more on Google

Yahoo, other search engines

you can look there for yourself

determine your current status of self, live or dead


When you search yourself

and find the death cart Ikon

maybe this is the time

when time ceases


Bob Small  3-1-09

 revised 3-2-09

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Thouigh I Know

Though I know

you’re never coming over again

at least

in the way you did before

I still

wait by the window

and hate the window

and hate the summer


Though I know

you’re never-I almost said home-

as though I, or anyone

could ever give your restless soul


your soles travel

the length and tense

the length and tense

of Philadelphia

I would settle for your soles, if not your soul,

I have

none of you

I am a mighty fool

I wait by windows


Though I know

you’re never coming over again

as you once did

when I was a new experience

(unlike crack, I’m not addictive

and the new gets old real quick)

Though I know

I still wait

by the window

Though I know


Though I know

you’re never coming over again

as once you were

you might come to talk

to sleep

to bring over a book you borrowed

or one to lend


sit by the window

carrying a torch

slightly bigger

than Ms. Liberty


Though I know

you’re never coming over again

I stand

by the window

watch claw-in-claw lovers

till I can watch no more of them,

(ayyy, that’s who a them is)

go off to my tiny archway bed

fight off dreams of you

as though I could


As though I could

seek other dreams

as though I would

As though I would

learn anything new

learn anyone new

or learn






Though I kow

I stand by my window on Passyunk Avenue

waiting for you

praying for you


in still motion

still life

a painting of a pauper

Though I know


Though I know

I would do desperate deeds for you

if that could make yesterday


you are out there runnin’

I am part of your past

as packed away

as your old tattered copies of Howl and Kaddish

I yet wait by

standing at this window,

this widow’s window,

as though I were a sailor’s wife

or someone else

so fortunate

someone else

so cer tain

of lover’s return

I still wait

my flag at half staff

and loss

Though I know


Though I know

there is nothing to do

but go on

to the next



but I re


but I

always the dreamer

always the pisces

always the Poet

this fan ta sy man

this dan cing man

this man of a thousand chases

still stands by the window

waiting for you

till mid night and then





where losses are counted and numbered

where losses

are counted and numbered

then placed in the oak bureau drawer

with old Poems

unsent letters

and other

pictures of the dead

till midnight

he stands

and then some more,

looking at Silent Radio News across the street,

Your Name

never appears

just baseball scores

and un de clared wars

and the other varieties of evil

we insist, in our continuing confliction, infliction-

I still stand,

a soldier,

from a vanquished army,

like the last Japanese Soldier

on the last



waiting for Empress’ order

Though I know


Though I know




by window’s flame, consumed, as though

by widow’s flame

as though you were the husband

in ancient India

as though

I must still stand

till the flames

have seared my skin to bone

have cracked my bone

have caused me to return unto sea and dirt

from which I was born

and where I will surely go

Though I know


Though I know

I will greet sweet death

and whatever dreams wait after

ere we touch as lovers again

Though I know all this

as surely as I know the feel of my flesh

how my blind hand feels on my soaken face

Though I know all the excuses of the world

and how times are not to be trusted

Though I know this life is the impurest dream

and I must wake up

I must wake up!

I still wait

by the window

Though I know


Though I know

I still wait

by the window

I must wait

by the window

There is noone left named me

if I do not wait

by this window

that you





again in this life in the way that you once came as


I do still know


I do still know


I do



I do


as an evening’s suicide




original 7-12/86 rev 9-25-86 then 11/21/20

Maybe I should send this out again

previously rejected by Long Poem Magazine

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It’s not like

It’s not like I really knew him

but I was the kind of kid who

grew up on radio

and Blavat was the best

just was


It’s not like I really knew

if he was “mobbed-up”

Nor did most of us care

we were “radio-heads”

and he knew what to feed us


It’s not like anyone else

did multiple versions of a song

played the “B” sides

played “black music” when others

played the Pat Boone versions


It’s not like

I’ll stop listening just ’cause he’s dead

like Sid Mark playing Sinatra

like anyone else you still enjoy

for decades and decades


Recently I discovered Mary Lou Williams

playing over and over

Swarthmore Library gave away Jazz

and modern classical music cd’s

and that’s also my world


It’s not like

being in one place keeps you only there

it’s not like I’m still 16


I just want to remember how it felt

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And one more thing

Just realized that a lot of my Poems are on CD’s that I can only

open on my desktop (hers) or at the Library.

The Laptop requires another device which only works

for burning, not for opening!

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Recently, I’ve come across some Poems I did when I was twelve and like that

I’ll look at the ones that were typed (manual typewriter) and

also a 150 page novel that I may never get around to scanning.

It’s enough to scan one or two Poems a day.

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Poems known as Secrets #1

Sometimes he wraps his eyes
around her fingers
dreams of the possibilities
knows how they would taste
dirt—filled fingernails of
uneven length .
hospital red with their
he knows
that these hands
be come fists
at the drop of a memory
he knows
she would aim these fists at him
just for the fact of his being there
he accepts
that this sharp ness
is one price of her love
he fears
he would not want it
any other way or


2] sometimes
he wraps his dreams
around her legs
where the burns and scars re
a reminder of times she’s tried to cease her dreams
a remainder
of all the vacations she spent in hell
a testament
to test his idea of beauty

he knows he could
never hurt her i
he knows he would try
ho keep her
from using any more of her body
as a living canvas
for performance art
he knows he can only
to keep herself from

he knows there would be mornings
his eyes would look up at her legs
at the scars
and the burns
and the scent of pain
and all he could know would be love
despite »
or maybe because of
what the evening had done to her
the steps she had to take-

he stares at her boots
wanting to be there
to taste her
un pol ished toes
to have
her crusted rough feet
to be long to her
in whatever way she choose-
knowing everything could collapse
at the bend of a mind

Would a man leave
a wife for her
would a man cheat
he knows the answer
but asks anyway

he just wants
to listen to her

revised on 7-5—02-from 6—19-02

revised on 9—1-02

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It’s all about flesh

It’s all about Flesh

what we feel

what we see

what we want

It’s all about Flesh


It’s all about Skin

arms and legs and

backs and fingers

and chest and necks

It’s all about Skin


It’s all about the smell

and taste

and sounds

and laughs

and still after forty of years?

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