Blog2L2
- Baldessari May 18, 2012 Derek Bridges
- Rewind May 11, 2012 Derek Bridges
- Going in the Opposite Direction May 8, 2012 Derek Bridges
- Rope Man with Cigarette April 25, 2012 Derek Bridges
Bob Hudson
like animals
- we ate out of cans
we let the grass grow
we lived at the end of the street
we wrote earnest and pretentious poetry
we played records late
we painted on the backs of cardboard boxes
we drank on weeknights
we worked low-paying dead end jobs
we shared weed like it was significant
we romanticized the sixties
we were certain Reagan would blow up the world
we did not plan for retirement
high price cheese
she remembers the last five seconds
of what she knows of me
forgetting all the high price cheese
that came before
Continue readingtotally on board
your point is taken
something about not falling into a rut
and I want you to know
I am totally on board with that baby
the majesty of the past
the majesty of the past
is a low dollar delusional comfort
that dislocates my attention
while rolling down the street on my bicycle
so that I don’t even notice
the wind in my face
At Long Last
AT LONG LAST from John Hicks on Vimeo.
enemy country
sometimes I want to flee
the concrete land they made for me
through the weed grown ditch
the overgrown ravine
into a jungle
with mountains on the other side
where men with no uniforms
want to kill me with sticks and stones
the glorious history of civilization
sometimes I feel like the glorious history of civilization
could just evaporate
like a puddle on a hot summer day
interaction with other human beings
can't there be a sense of positivity
that's not sold the way soap is sold?
the drowning
they were doing nothing
they were sitting around
telling stories about the way the world is
and I could not argue
with the truth
of their sad conclusions
a higher plane
the wind in the trees puts me in a trance
again
in the backyard with a record player
a long orange extension cord
a rock star cellist from the 1940s
the gentleman’s question
"What are you smiling at?"
the man with a bag of cans
snarls at me
as I swoop by on my bicycle
to the door
of the grocery store
freeze tag
why are you reading this
got to be something
you've got to do
yet here you are
frittering I'd say
what the hell is sleep
LlamaVision!
Continue readingwinter
these blank lines
on the notebook paper
make me bleak and uneasy
like the thought of a book
no one will ever read
in the far corner of an empty library
the wall
the torture goes on
I can hear the sounds of it
so I put up a wall
between me and it
and think of other things
it’s not like I haven't tried to kill the bastard
who wields the voodoo doll and the long pins
I've looked everywhere
the motions
I swear I got the Christmas tree
broke the ornaments out of the attic
sang the songs
held the child’s hand
showed up and coughed up
for the plate
somewhere else
‘Twas the night before Christmas, 1977, and if some goofball in a Santa suit had’ve walked through the door, I probably would’ve clocked him with a candlestick, drug him out back, and delivered one kick to the ribs for each of the twelve days of Christmas.
It was bad enough just being fifteen, just being there in that house with my ten year old brother who was all keyed up over the gaudy tree, the liquor-less eggnog, Burt Case and the idiotic reindeer radar, the cookies with green sugar, and the even sweeter violins of the Perry Como record my Mom felt made a holiday grand slam: Silent Night and Rudolph.
I thought of the smell of reindeer steak. I hated the fake smile on my face. I wanted to be away.
So when Mr. Hempshaw called, I only pretended to be put out, told him I’d be right over with a dry copy of the Jackson Daily News, as the bag on his had ripped on the sharp rocks of his driveway.
It was… Continue reading
over with
married a long time
work takes me on the road
for a few days
and nights
get home
stomp in the house
say, "I am very glad to see you, baby."
perfect day
a perfect day
my knees are broken
sky is blinding
your hair flying
in the slipstream
Bob Reads
Bob recently fractured his femur and wrist while in the Bahamas during his latest money-making scheme, The Bob Hudson Poetry Cruise. He was whisked from the cruise ship to a secret underground medical facility where they rebuilt him and made him better. His collections include the majesty of the past, into the cold wind, the train, women not my wife, trance of paranoia, she lets me and no gunshots right now.
Continue reading