Category Archives: Bob Hicok

1960, Michigan

Poem – Dropping The Euphemism

He has five children, I’m papa to a hundred pencils. I bought the chair he sat in from a book of chairs, staplers and spikes that let me play Vlad the Impaler with invading memos. When I said I have … Continue reading

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Poem – A Shopkeeper’s Story

I sell one bristle brushes. People seeking two bristle brushes I send to the guy on Amsterdam, who’s in a rush. I may have one customer a year for my one bristle brushes, a one-eyed lover of tanagers, she may … Continue reading

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Poem – Toward Accuracy

We’re high enough that what I call fog might be cloud. Not Everest high, or Chomuolungma, “Mother Goddess of the World.” If we named things what they are, our sentences would be monsoons, long rains of sound. Morning is “the … Continue reading

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Poem – Unmediated Experience

She does this thing. Our seventeen- year-old dog. Our mostly deaf dog. Our mostly dead dog, statistically speaking. When I crouch. When I put my mouth to her ear and shout her name. She walks away. Walks toward the nothing … Continue reading

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Poem – A Private Public Space

You can’t trust lesbians. You invite them to your party and they don’t come, they’re too busy tending vaginal flowers, hating football, walking their golden and chocolate labs. X gave me a poem in which she was in love with … Continue reading

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Poem – Go Greyhound

A few hours after Des Moines the toilet overflowed. This wasn’t the adventure it sounds. I sat with a man whose tattoos weighed more than I did. He played Hendrix on mouth guitar. His Electric Ladyland lips weren’t fast enough … Continue reading

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Poem – Prodigal

You could drive out of this country and attack the world with your ambition, invent wonder plasmas, become an artist of the provocative gesture, the suggestive nod, you could leave wanting the world and return carrying it, a noisy bundle … Continue reading

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