Sunday, February 6, 2011
Tuesday, December 28, 2010
“Head, Heart” by Lydia Davis
Head tries to help heart.
Head tells heart how it is, again:
You will lose the ones you love. They will all go. But even the earth will go, someday.
Heart feels better, then.
But the words of head do not remain long in the ears of heart.
Heart is so new to this.
I want them back, says heart.
Head is all heart has.
Help, head. Help heart.
Wednesday, August 25, 2010
It's an odd feeling, leaving the old behind. Indescribable, yet at times so tangible. Descriptions perched on the tip of my tongue, like a skilled but nervous diver on the edge of the high board, squinting at the ant-like people below. Waiting, just waiting. I want to tell you what it feels like and then in a moment it's gone. Jumped off the board or climbed down the ladder. Either way. Please understand... this is not a bad thing. The complete opposite. I want more. More of being on the edge. More of seeing how close I can get before I realize the outcome of the high diver. Which end was chosen? I smile either way. If I can explain it, I open. If I can't, I open. Either way I win. The word open has taken on a new meaning. A physical feeling inside my chest. The fourth chakra. A game I play with my self. Can I feel the energy eminating from behind the thick milky colured sternum? If I can't, I simply open. It's another win win situation.
This new found awareness is causing crows feet form around my eyes in the best way possible. Muscles in my face, around my mouth, in my lips, my cheeks, small delicate fibers I had forgotten about are getting a work out of their very own. Words that sat idle in my mind are being used with gusto. Glorious being a favorite of late. I can't help it I want to say to everyone I see. I can't help it. I finally feel like I understand why life is beautiful. And that realization, that real realization of the realist sort is so very evident on my face and I love every minute of it.
Saturday, August 21, 2010
by Bob Hicok
At the desk where the boy sat, he sees the Chicago River.
It raises its hand.
It asks if metaphor should burn.
He says fire is the basis for all forms of the mouth.
He asks, why did you fill the boy with your going?
I didn't know a boy had been added to me, the river says.
Would you have given him back if you knew?
I think so, the river says, I have so many boys in me,
I'm worn out stroking eyes looking up at the day.
Have you written a poem for us? he asks the river,
and the river reads its poem,
and the other students tell the river
it sounds like a poem the boy would have written,
that they smell the boy's cigarettes
in the poem, they feel his teeth
biting the page.
And the river asks, did this boy dream of horses?
because I suddenly dream of horses, I suddenly dream.
They're in a circle and the river says, I've never understood
round things, why would leaving come back
And a girl makes a kiss with her mouth and leans it
against the river, and the kiss flows away
but the river wants it back, the river makes sounds
to go after the kiss.
And they all make sounds for the river to carry to the boy.
And the river promises to never surrender the boy's shape
to the ocean.