Bob Hicok

The Maple

The Maple Is a system of posture for wood. A way of not falling down For twigs that happens To benefit birds. I don’t know. I’m staring at a tree, At yellow leaves Threshed

Sudden Movements

My father’s head has become a mystery to him. We finally have something in common. When he moves his head his eyes Get big as roses filled With the commotion of spring. Not long

By Their Works

Who cleaned up the Last Supper? These would be my people. Maybe hung over, wanting Desperately a better job, Standing with rags In hand as the window Beckons with hills Of yellow grass. In

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,

Another Awkward Stage Of Convalescence

Drunk, I kissed the moon Where it stretched on the floor. I’d removed happiness from a green bottle, Both sipped and gulped Just as a river changes its mind, Mostly there was a flood

What Would Freud Say?

Wasn’t on purpose that I drilled Through my finger or the nurse Laughed. She apologized Three times and gave me a shot Of something that was a lusher Apology. The person Who drove me

Spirit Dity Of No Fax Line Dial Tone

The telephone company calls and asks what the fuss is. Betty from the telephone company, who’s not concerned With the particulars of my life. For instance If I believe in the transubstantiation of Christ