sweetheart redux

here are 4 poems i've written in the past few years that i sent to many literary journals, to no avail. actually, a literary journal called Poetry Motel told me they would publish "saints" but I could never reach them after that one letter from them, so, who knows. well, here goes.... a bit dark in places: 4 poems by Robin Crane Saints For you the saints of love appear They ask you what you’re doing here You say you’ve needed them so long You’ve since forgotten what was wrong. Female Traveler In Washington they’d probably Prefer to just remember me. In Michigan my ma and pa Left for me what as kids they saw. Savannah with its sexy grins Is where I threw up all my gin. New York New York the laundry hangs On lines that line the sky with veins. Los Angeles I made my home But panic freezes up my bones The only words that comfort me Are “Coast to Coast Cab Company.” All This Could Be Yours As in a farcical mystery novel Whose hapless hero falls unconscious in a den of murder...

Lately I've been wondering what the meaning of life is. doesn't that sound cliche? but it's true. I was a sort of christian for awhile when i was a child. i never believed in hell but i believed in heaven and God. I used to pray every night, it was such a bizarre prayer though because it was a litany of all my paranoias and fears, i remember a part of it went like this: "And please don't let mom die of AIDS and don't let there be an earthquake in the year 2000 that knocks the earth out of orbit" and I ended the prayer with "in your holy, sweet name i pray, amen." but one day when i was in 6th grade and i was at a restaurant with family, i was just seriously bummed that day, i was the #1 punching bag in my junior high that year and was actually suicidal, i realized there was no god, and i stopped praying that day. it's been part of my identity for a long time to be someone who "hates christians." i don't really hate th...

here is sweetheart #4, put out in May 1994. Enjoy. xox princess robin

No matter what, it seems, the holidays are cataclysmic. people are usually surprised when i say that December is my favorite month, but what i love about it is that it's so different, i can expect to drive down the street and see decorations, and when i was in school, it felt like you could sort of just screw around the whole month, and frankly that's how it's felt at my millions of jobs i've held by now, too, like everyone was taking work less seriously and being distracted by decorations and whatnot. in a way, i even like the depression factor of the holidays, because it's almost like sad people are understood when they get particularly agitated by their loneliness in December -- there are special resources, it seems, for depression, in december. but it's also so much pretending for me, and that gets tiring sometimes. there's a famous (famous to me, at least) craft store in Pasadena, where i spent my formative years, called Stats. they have a whole hu...

hello again. i'm putting up some pages from Sweetheart #3 today, put out in November 1993, when i was 14 or so. this one has an interview w/ the lead singer from Bratmobile in it, and lots of misspellings and drama i am sure. you can make the image bigger by clicking on it, by the way. xox robin

last night at a show i ended up speaking with an acquaintance who'd hear of my friend Bill Tunilla, and had even worked with him for awhile. Bill was my mom's best friend my entire life, helping her to function and protecting me from having too much to bear, as far as taking care of her. he was also one of the best people ever, with the type of shitty like that truly kind people end up coming up with, especially with a pretty cut-throat version of capitalism in place the way it is. he owned a used bookstore for years, because he loved books, and wanted people to be able to read books. he would give a book away to a homeless or crazy person if they got their heart set on it. me and mom were really his family. he did so much for me. he died of renal cancer in the bedroom of mom's apartment, this past June, penniless and truly tired of being so sick. he was well known in the used book world, dare i say a bit legendary (for his kindness, and maybe his sloppiness and love...

here's a piece of fiction i wrote a few years ago that never got published. xoxo robin Lunch-Time By Robin Crane Later, for at least a couple years after the surgery, I felt so bitter. And despite the gang of neighborhood cats that often followed behind me on my daily strolls as though I were their giantess captain, and other bizarre examples of enchantment, all I could do was obsess about swallowing poison, or being fucked by so many men I would eventually turn into a doll, and be left in peace in the warmth of a child’s bed, finally safe. All these damning thoughts came after they performed the operation on my heart, but before the operation, it was the fear of dying on the operating table that obsessed me. “Maggie, do you want to go home, or take some extra time for lunch?” my boss asked me. He was standing at the opening in my cubicle, gazing kindly at me, in all probability trying to telegraph the thought: “You Should Believe in God.” It was the day before my...