The pregnancy of words

The pregnancy of words

by Bob Hicok

Eros scrabbles to rose and rage

to gear or gare, as in Gare du Nord,

where I trained in to Paris from not

smoking pot in Master Mad, I’m sorry,

Amsterdam, with its canals

called grachts and clocks

that bonged my homesick hours

at different times. Which is smite

for you violet types, a flower

that says “love it” if you listen. Me, I do

and don’t feel it matters that evil thrives

in live, that we tinker and smash

everything down to bits and then

try to patch a path back home, it’s our lotto

in life, to have no clue

what a natural disaster is

when that disaster is us. That’s what I love

about the shrug, it says zilch

sans le mouth and becomes

more aerobic the more you admit

the less you know, you know? It’s a jumble

out there, kids, with slips and slides

and elide’s eally ool, depending

what’s lopped off, as in light of   hand

or slight of and, but I better spot

before you pots how sparse

this parsing is. Besides, what can I say

about language other than it’s an anal egg

in need of one glorious u. Words

or swordpick your poisson. Every time

I try to peak into speaking, the bag

of gab to learn what our noodles

are really up to, I get flummoxed

that the tools I use

are the stool I stand on

to see a way in or out. I can’t even tell

if I’m more trapped or rapt,

if meaning’s mean or play’s

a dumb waiter riding numbly

up and down. But have you noticed

read becomes dear

if you ignore the world

as you find it and find it in you

to swirl the word, in the way

solve and loves are the same

bones, different skeletons.


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