20170713

Bob Heman


from INFORMATION

INFORMATION

She read adjective poems to the puritans.



INFORMATION

Remembers what it was like to be outside. Remembers what it was like to learn big words like “flower”.



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Used the hat to tell the story, and the mask, and the punishment strap. Used a car where the forest was deepest, and a boat where the sky ended. Used an animal that no one could explain.



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Sixteen states assigned to a new map. Even five colors were not enough to explain the difference. The animals were brought in last. There was no sense to their arrangement.



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In the morning there were trees. There were doors masquerading as windows and women masquerading as boats. There were goats where the horizon began and a broken machine where it ended. There was a word they were required to say even though it had no meaning.



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Prefers the water to the sand, and the wind to the fire. Prefers the word “listen” to the word “aardvark,” and the color blue to the color of oranges. Prefers the woman when she is filled with dreams.



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The pool was not for swimming. It was barely deep enough to cover the machine, barely deep enough to submerge the raccoon, barely deep enough to hide the word “danger.”



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Where the god was born there was only a large rock surrounded by twigs, only a machine full of squirrels, only a woman who counted every other star. Where the god was born the entire ocean fit inside a thimble.



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Anything that is alive can be eaten. There will always be a need to keep lists. You can carry the boats deeper into the forest where they will probably be mistaken for cabins or caves. If you remember to speak the clouds will be understood more easily.



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The umbrellas cannot be opened on Thursday. On Saturday the men are required to wear shoes that match. Each time the animals arrive it is either a Tuesday or a Sunday. On Wednesday everything they desire is divided in half.



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The death of the god is represented by a dozen cuts in a piece of paper that has been folded far too often. Sometimes the wall of bricks behind it can almost be seen.



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In certain climates the apple becomes a boat, the cat becomes a door, each fern grows higher than the hat made of ice. In June the ketchup limps up the mountain, never occupying the place the question requires. The separate toes are usually very wet, an “x” the body has yet to deposit in the zone of explanations.



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They can be connected with string, or with metal fasteners, or with a set of instructions that cannot be understood. The direction they travel arbitrary, much like the disguises they will be required to assume.



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Beneath each arm an egg. Beneath each tree an ocean filled with worms. Beneath each map a man who must be measured in inches, or in pints, or in grams, measured in the time it takes for him to be repeated. Beneath each antelope a rhinoceros that is hidden, a battery that can be used to increase its speed. Beneath each sun a wheel that must be explained.



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The egg was only a story they were told. It was filled with different vowels than they expected. It had only one color, and that could not be counted. They thought they could carry it with them to the river, but it rolled away when they weren’t looking.



Bob Heman’s words have appeared recently in New American Writing, concīs, Caliban online, First Literary Review-East, Right Hand Pointing, Clockwise Cat, and Uut Poetry.
 
 
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1 Comments:

Blogger karl baker [ACME] said...

thanks for the information, bob, i love this stuff!

1:52 AM  

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