Psst.
I haven't been writing like I should lately. Too much time spent in the moment, finally. I'm at peace and living day by day, hour by hour. There is no schedule to bound my endless joy. Corny, I guess.
But I'm happy. That's worth getting corny over.
I'll be living in Vermont next year, for nine or ten months. I'll get to learn about things like snow tires and killing cold. I'm really excited about it. It's a tiny little town, with a population of maybe three thousand people.
I'm so good at just observing people's lives. It's some weird voyeurism, like the way I read Post Secret religiously. I'm not sure what it means yet, but I feel like I'm learning things. Or maybe I'm just a creep.
Interestingly enough, I've lost touch of most of the people I knew from high school. There aren't many people I can call friends anymore, which is primarily my doing. I don't work and I don't socialize. The fact doesn't bother me, and I feel like it should. Then again, bullying yourself into things never works out well.
Canada suits me. I like it here. Despite not being able to speak French, it's pleasant. Of course, there's the boy, too. We could be living in Hell and I'd have something nice to say about it.
There was a lot of other shit I was going to write, but it can be summed up. I love school, and I'm finally good at something. I worry that I'm only good because I'm at Memphis, though.
This is beautiful.
“Other Lives and Dimensions and Finally a Love Poem”
Bob Hicok
My left hand will live longer than my right. The rivers
of my palms tell me so.
Never argue with rivers. Never expect your lives to finish
at the same time. I think
praying, I think clapping is how hands mourn. I think
staying up and waiting
for paintings to sigh is science. In another dimension this
is exactly what's happening,
it's what they write grants about: the chromodynamics
of mournful Whistlers,
the audible sorrow and beta decay of "Old Battersea Bridge."
I like the idea of different
theres and elsewheres, an Idaho known for bluegrass,
a Bronx where people talk
like violets smell. Perhaps I am somewhere patient, somehow
kind, perhaps in the nook
of a cousin universe I've never defiled or betrayed
anyone. Here I have
two hands and they are vanishing, the hollow of your back
to rest my cheek against,
your voice and little else but my assiduous fear to cherish.
My hands are webbed
like the wind-torn work of a spider, like they squeezed
something in the womb
but couldn't hang on. One of those other worlds
or a life I felt
passing through mine, or the ocean inside my mother's belly
she had to scream out.
Here when I say "I never want to be without you,"
somewhere else I am saying
"I never want to be without you again." And when I touch you
in each of the places we meet
in all of the lives we are, it's with hands that are dying
and resurrected.
When I don't touch you it's a mistake in any life,
in each place and forever.
But I'm happy. That's worth getting corny over.
I'll be living in Vermont next year, for nine or ten months. I'll get to learn about things like snow tires and killing cold. I'm really excited about it. It's a tiny little town, with a population of maybe three thousand people.
I'm so good at just observing people's lives. It's some weird voyeurism, like the way I read Post Secret religiously. I'm not sure what it means yet, but I feel like I'm learning things. Or maybe I'm just a creep.
Interestingly enough, I've lost touch of most of the people I knew from high school. There aren't many people I can call friends anymore, which is primarily my doing. I don't work and I don't socialize. The fact doesn't bother me, and I feel like it should. Then again, bullying yourself into things never works out well.
Canada suits me. I like it here. Despite not being able to speak French, it's pleasant. Of course, there's the boy, too. We could be living in Hell and I'd have something nice to say about it.
There was a lot of other shit I was going to write, but it can be summed up. I love school, and I'm finally good at something. I worry that I'm only good because I'm at Memphis, though.
This is beautiful.
“Other Lives and Dimensions and Finally a Love Poem”
Bob Hicok
My left hand will live longer than my right. The rivers
of my palms tell me so.
Never argue with rivers. Never expect your lives to finish
at the same time. I think
praying, I think clapping is how hands mourn. I think
staying up and waiting
for paintings to sigh is science. In another dimension this
is exactly what's happening,
it's what they write grants about: the chromodynamics
of mournful Whistlers,
the audible sorrow and beta decay of "Old Battersea Bridge."
I like the idea of different
theres and elsewheres, an Idaho known for bluegrass,
a Bronx where people talk
like violets smell. Perhaps I am somewhere patient, somehow
kind, perhaps in the nook
of a cousin universe I've never defiled or betrayed
anyone. Here I have
two hands and they are vanishing, the hollow of your back
to rest my cheek against,
your voice and little else but my assiduous fear to cherish.
My hands are webbed
like the wind-torn work of a spider, like they squeezed
something in the womb
but couldn't hang on. One of those other worlds
or a life I felt
passing through mine, or the ocean inside my mother's belly
she had to scream out.
Here when I say "I never want to be without you,"
somewhere else I am saying
"I never want to be without you again." And when I touch you
in each of the places we meet
in all of the lives we are, it's with hands that are dying
and resurrected.
When I don't touch you it's a mistake in any life,
in each place and forever.