Author: Steven Robertson

PURE white noise masks the motors’ whinE:
DRY-dock the getaway cars for a full repaint and resuppLY,
KNOwing the pursuers still laCK
SPecific security footage–proof–from the bANK.

LEERY of the Lhotse Face,
CLIMB to the Hillary Step,
PRONE on the ice,
WRIST and ankle straining.

“KNAVE” branded upon his reputation like Hawthorne’s letters, but when one’s preeminent

SKILL is theft, it’s hard to escape the conclusion–just or otherwise. His marks create and propagate the

NEEDY, so his mission is to restore balance. Lady Justice holds a pair of scales, after all. Perhaps

GLOVE, rather than Hood, would be a… Continue reading Doesn’t Have the Same Ring

AROMA slinks around like someone escaping a crowded room, but the
DRIVE to capture possesses everyone exposed to it, even the
FIFTH or sixth passerby each minute cannot resist the exhaust from YEAST working its way through the dough.

VINYL nor digital can convey the haunting, melancholy beauty coursing through the ocean currents, shivering from face to

FLUKE, reaching out through the orca-orbits for the comfort of companionship, mournful melodies

TAKEN from the sunless depths to the drums’ rhythm set by percussive breaches at the surface.

QUELL your un-wonder in the salty waters where… Continue reading George and Gracie

CREST of the boar-helm shimmers gold:
PRIZE from the then-enemy, now chariot-cargo.
MONTHs turned into years as the siege bore on, but the
LEAST of these walls shield twenty more just like him.

OVERT warnings ignored, their voices
FAINT over the roar of the rapids; the battered
KAYAK chauffeured toward the falls:
REFIT the least of all concerns.

CLOUD of dust chasing the Doppler-ed
WHINE of the jet escaping from its
REHAB of fuel and repairs––physics and gravity always a
THORN in the side of desperation.