#bob hicok

[lunchboxpoems]

BOB HICOK

[havingapoemwithyou]

remedy by Bob Hicok

[apoemaday]

The eulogy I didn’t give (XIII)

by Bob Hicok

Good parents make dinner.

Provide the food, the table, the spoon, the fork, the home.

Teach you to shovel snow, catch fireflies, shave, use a tampon. Explain

light bulbs, stars, the dark. Remove thorns

of trees and attempt to extract larger thorns, like heroin if it stabs you.

Drink little, or none, or a lot. Try to lift you

higher in the sky than they ever got.

And stand next in line for death, between you and your last breath.

When your parents are gone, the final bit of your childhood runs away from home.

You're an adult now and on your way, alone.

[mournfulroses]

Bob Hicok, from a poem titled "Churn," featured in his poetry collection Sex & Love &,

[beingharsh]

"Elements", Bob Hicok

[dreaminginthedeepsouth]

From The New Yorker - 'The Call to Worship' by Bob Hicok...

[Irish Centre for Poetry Studies]

[quillaffinity]

Sixth BKDK Web Weave bc they finally held hands (spoilers)

---

oh lover - have i ever seen you weep? like this? for me?

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MHA by Horikoshi Kōhei    

First BKDK Web Weave | Second BKDK Web Weave | Third BKDK Web Weave | Fourth BKDK Web Weave (pt.1) | Fourth BKDK Web Weave (pt.2) | Fifth BKDK Web Weave 

mha / p.d / mha / mha / khaled hosseini / mha / hélène cixous / william shakespeare / warsan shire / bob hicok / mha / octavio paz / mha / chloe liese / ??? / mha / the avett brothers, "the ballad of love and hate" / mha / leigh bardugo / ??? / mha / mha / josh alex baker / hozier, "unknown / nth" / virginia woolf / mha / mha / alain de botton / leigh bardugo / mha

[fluttering-slips]

Other Lives And Dimensions And Finally A Love Poem

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. Bob Hicok

[seekingstars]

Admission is free - Bob Hicok

[lunchboxpoems]

THE CALL TO WORSHIP

The possibility that the zero gave birth to the universe, that all our somethings come from nothing, the fear of being alone like that, children of chance, orphans down to our atoms, is mother to the idea of god. God

is a dress we slip over solitude, a mask for oblivion to wear, a rule-giver in a world where no flower or bear cares that we are here or what we do.

I prefer a theology of silence, the eschatology of the shrug, a religion of holding my wife’s hand for now.

But, if the industry of the church is what it took to give me bells ringing Sunday mornings, to which crows sometimes rise and deer turn, I’m grateful for a sound that pulls me out of myself, lifts my head toward sun and clouds, into the up and all, the blue, the on and on of it, when I bend the only knee I have to bend, feel happily small, contingent, and held, by what I can’t say, short of everything.

BOB HICOK

[havingapoemwithyou]

poem ending with a murder/suicide by Bob Hicok

[firstfullmoon]

Bob Hicok, “A Crystal Ball”

[veggieburgertrash]

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

white ferrari - frank ocean / everything everywhere all at once - daniel kwan, daniel scheinert / another life - sza / past lives - celine song / birds of a feather - billie eilish / other lives and dimensions and finally a love poem - bob hicok

[coffinmouth]

When I don’t touch you it’s a mistake in any life, in each place and forever.

—Bob Hicok, Other Lives And Dimensions And Finally A Love Poem

[sageandscorpiongrass]

hello! for some reason, the thought of asking about web weaving prompts completely escaped me until now. you're the first I am asking! hello!!!

I don't see this sort of web weaving subject around, so is it possible to make one about an abandoned AI? (the fictional, sapient kind, not the ones irl lol)

like an AI, with a sapient mind, just..... alone. lost between the lines of code in cyberspace, wishing for someone like them to destroy their isolation

How can you mourn for something not living?

I hope this fills the prompt well! It was very interesting to do. I'm sorry it took so long! ;^^

Subtitle, Weldon Kees | Can't Help Myself, Oliver Rain | Ancient Dreams in a Modern Land, MARINA | If I Were Paul, Mark Jarman | Robot Apocalypses, Beatrice Bywater | One More Love Poem, Dunya Mikhail | Just Take My Wallet, Jack Stauber | Machine, John Ciardi | There Is Absolutely Nothing Lonelier, Matthew Rohrer | Conjure, Rachel Blau DuPlessis | More than whispers, less than rumors, Bob Hicok | The Day the Saucers Came, Neil Gaiman | The Birds Outside My Window Sing During a Pandemic, Lee Herrick | End Poem, Julian Gough | 2001: A Space Odyssey, Arthur C. Clarke & Stanley Kubrick

[text transcription and image ID in alt text]

[dreaminginthedeepsouth]

Ｔ ｕｒｑｕｏｉｓｅトルコ石  

* * * * *

Elements

But enough about me. Have you ever noticed that your mind is everywhere and nowhere you look or grope, and that it’s odd how clearly you can see yourself not seeing yourself at all?

This raises the inevitable question: What’s your policy on fog? When it gets in bed with you, who’s on top? Dances with you, who leads? And if I admit that it’s my doppelgänger, that I aspire to its humid spiritualism of touching entire skies and horizons at once, that I am transparent in my lack of clarity vis à vis the faces of likewise apparently solid but actually silkily composed and wispy beings, will you, as a fellow wisp, recognize that fog is the truest biography of the species, and cling to me and get lost in my embrace as I cling to your diffuse and unbearable yearning?

I’m sorry. We just met. Interrogation isn’t the way to get to know someone. Sometimes I simply want us all to meld together, and fog has more magic up its sleeves than I have magic or sleeves, is unified and glorified and uncuttable with a knife or remark and reminds me that I am a constant presence in my life sometimes, since I am elsewhere now and somewhere often and usually everywhere missing a screw or faith, for though I want to believe in life after death, I struggle to believe in spring after winter, roses after tulips, and that stuffing my pockets with fire and dried leaves to burn myself down and start over with ashes to fashion a new day will lead to anything more lasting than bones made of smoke that know better than to stay.

[Bob Hicok]