There are things from childhood we should keep, giggling
of course, saying booger and giggling, throwing stones
at STOP signs, not gunshots and speedballs, not
having to buy ice cream with food stamps, should keep
sweatshirts with hoods, red ones and black. My head
is inside a black hood, I feel like a giant clitoris.
The Giant Clitoris fights Rodan – I’d watch that movie.
I have hidden for a month in plain sight, or fancy sight,
have been forested, for the sake of a non-clitoris
metaphor, among the trees of my thoughts. This
is probably a womb thing, placenta memory, probably
skin missing fur, this is cloak-and-dagger, peekaboo,
is night when I pull the strings and the hood
swallows my face, this is gone, daddy-o. That’s
another thing to preserve, saying daddy-o
when you buy cigarettes, when you pass a twenty
over the front seat of the cab and whisper
from inside the forest/womb of your hood, keep
the change, daddy-o, and the cabbie thinks, that Death
is all right, and purrs copasetic as you slide
out the door, and there you are, at Twenty-First
and Broadway, wondering where the scythe in your hand
came from, how the poem changed from first person
to second, why everyone is running from you, running from you,
and why you are chasing them, catching them,
why it feels like springtime to swing the blade.
Clothes Make the Man
Did you enjoy the the artible “Clothes Make the Man” from Bob Hicok on OZOFE.COM? Do you know anyone who could enjoy it as much as you do? If so, don't hesitate to share this post to them and your other beloved ones.
Leave a Reply