Highway 29: The Beginning

Wednesday, May 7, 2008

The Beginning

First, know that I am cynical. But so is Nick Cave, obviously, and he seems to be doing fine. Second, I don't know what the hell I am doing making a blog. Tomorrow I am going to write about how I ate Doritos and watched Lost just like the other 14,000,000 people on Blogger. Oh well. There are some people I want to keep in touch with. That's what it's all about anyway these days, right? Keeping in touch. Okay then. Chst.

3 comments:

Anonymous said...: I like your blog, Brit!; May 7, 2008 at 10:28 PM
Hutchison Family Blog said...: Ran by your blog, how are you doing?; May 11, 2008 at 4:37 PM
Chris Johnson said...: I forgot to include the links for last weeks weekly media. Here they are:

People Ain't No Good
by Nick Cave and the Bad Seeds http://songza.com/z/geuybn

Forgot Website of the Week. Sorry.

Book: The General and His Labyrinth.

Forget the rest.; May 14, 2008 at 9:45 PM

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This is a good poem.

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, Plus Shipping,
Boa Editions, Rochester, NY (1988), pp. 98-99

Highway 29

Wednesday, May 7, 2008

The Beginning

3 comments:

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This is a good poem.

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