Wednesday, May 16, 2007


Hobobob is homeless and living on a street near you.


I see you,
Outside of the Starbucks,
Smoking a cigarette,

You are skinny,
With blonde hair.

You notice me,
You don’t smile,
I don’t smile back,
I simply look away.

I look at the people outside,
The window before me.

Where are they going?
Who are they meeting?
You meet your friend.

You both walk past my window.

He is tall like you,
He is skinny like you,
He is white,
But he is blonde like you.

And you are now smiling at me,
Flipping me the finger.

- Hobobob, 2007

Friday, May 11, 2007


Robert Mueller lives on the Upper West Side in Manhattan. He approaches writing from a base of modest achievement as a practicing literary scholar. Essays appear online in Jacket and at the Barbara Guest home page in the Electronic Poetry Center. In his poems Mr. Mueller contributes to vibrant cultural and community goings on by way of experiments in verbal fantasy and free humor. The spontaneity of his writing can be slap-dash and it can be roughhousing or quieter feeling. When the opportunity arises, he reads his poems aloud at open gatherings, sometimes on the same day.

To Too-ta-loo the Schubert Herr
by Robert Mueller

Ticker-tocker Heimweh Schleim!
Minstrel strews reversal coos
cascading into delight set
altitudes where thou art cowl.
Loosey Goose fly in chink of thy may-thistle.
Then thou art hastening sugaries,
art embosomed in enamelling boom.
Little gleaning
wanting to start sheets come in parts.
Or daintily the violins, no cob-webs tholed,
clatter like a shrine-a-line in scurry.
I have half a mind and I am scrolled
to cashier hides,
to send thee, quickly, to Arachnidae school,
to worm, to bleed, to bowlover, and nothing cool;
for of swift anneal I please steed,
steed feared and mangled in the flying night,
steed fluegeling bright to you tonight.
Ho Pindar ho, bedubbing Crown,
more monkey grown, of Beard-Mistress thorough thrown,
snatch mead anon of dangling fire,
make shine your schimpfy grackle choir.
The Speedos’ harms are itchy, harms are bold,
Geigle Spiegel Giddy Gold.
May then the beam-quick Clause of Many
cataract to full card’s slick, the boo-birds brimmed
within the Way-Ocean tumble-flick.
May all these chime
in mystery, or Isolde’s
sirens be.
May all these capstanated clay-bums be,
may all, may all, commatteration.
It snoofles, it sneefles,
its tattery twos tease and mingle.
The dome-lit highs suffuse
the sky, and meanwhile
grommeling grooms supplease the Queen’s squinching,
her Tame-Lord ease, her sooth for these Innings.