To watch: a Midwestern brand with a vintage style

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More than whispers, less than rumors

Bob hicok

The river is high. i would love to smoke pot

with the river. I would love if it rains

sat at my table and told me what it is

to lick Edith Piaf’s grave. I’ll think

I’m separated from the garbage day

and the weird hairstyle my cat wakes up with

but I am from the avalanche

as much as I am his tambourine.

The river breaks against my sleep

as if he took the applause apart and put it back together

like a riot of wet mouths

worshiping my ears, is above my head

when he explains string theory

and affection for me,

when he tells me to be the code breaker,

not the code. What does it mean?

Why does lyric poetry exist?

When will the water open her mouth

and tell us how to be clouds, how to rise

and transform and die and flourish and be reborn

all at the same time, all regardless

if we have food in our teeth or teeth in our eyes

or hair in our soup or a piano in our pockets,

just play the damn melody. The river is bipolar

but emptied his meds, I’m dead

but someone has to finish all the cheese

in the fridge, we are a failed species

if suction cups are important, if intelligence

is not noted on a curve,

but if despair counts, if thunderstorms

the noise in our heads is it given a pass

and the rivers swell because the orchestras

aren’t always there when you need them, well,

I still don’t know anything


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