Eric Huff
2 poems
**
from hero
**
Jackson Pollock
there are in ways
suggestions of a pulse in our ears
we breathe empty until images spread across
wide spaces between our eye lines
we really listen, our lashes down
images of things floating out of –
here in some vibrant reality mapped,
palms up in a question
green paint under your fingernails
you blush warm
our hands are soft to touch
our mouths form circles
there is no silence
**
E.J. Bellocq
a few years after you died by the muddy sea swell and chapping isolation
I found your photographs.
it was like hearing your heartbeat quick while alone in the dark.
what house is this? everything is so strange to you and she likes it
she is in front of you all naked, eyes shifting toward the lamp casting shadows,
exposed
above the covers in the middle of the night, her young curves distract from her round, brown eyes looking up through parting hair
she is the unexamined presence -
the underside of the universe
there are prints in the fireplace and all you think about is sex and the possibilities
of sex upstairs while over looking the coldest scene
of dark trees and a still life lake, late at night
she breathes to fog a window because there is nothing left to do
..........and you may have loved her
..........and you may have spoken so softly
..........and you may have handed her the whole world in a dirty paper cup
..........and she may have collected the handful of clothes she had
..........and walked out into the early morning light
..........and smiled just a little –
Bellocq,
I don’t know where you went after that
nor what she did wrong
so gently, you took her face apart with some scraping edge against glass, you
left her uneven, without a peak
and if only these listing clouds could support snow in Louisiana
maybe nobody would ever realize how much was really missing from this creation
you,
just stooping there, well under the curtain
adjusting the bellows with those dirty cracking fingers
never wanting to see the day directly again
you were making something –
I am sure of it.
**
return to sawbuck 4.1
**
Eric Huff wears a small piece of red bandana around his left ankle at all times as a reminder to live life more. He finds himself teaching in Kenosha, Wisconsin almost everyday as a result. Some of his poems appear in places such as The Outhouse, Verse Wisconsin, The Albion Review and Centrique. Huff also has a chapbook out that he calls in blues.
**
from hero
**
Jackson Pollock
there are in ways
suggestions of a pulse in our ears
we breathe empty until images spread across
wide spaces between our eye lines
we really listen, our lashes down
images of things floating out of –
here in some vibrant reality mapped,
palms up in a question
green paint under your fingernails
you blush warm
our hands are soft to touch
our mouths form circles
there is no silence
**
E.J. Bellocq
a few years after you died by the muddy sea swell and chapping isolation
I found your photographs.
it was like hearing your heartbeat quick while alone in the dark.
what house is this? everything is so strange to you and she likes it
she is in front of you all naked, eyes shifting toward the lamp casting shadows,
exposed
above the covers in the middle of the night, her young curves distract from her round, brown eyes looking up through parting hair
she is the unexamined presence -
the underside of the universe
there are prints in the fireplace and all you think about is sex and the possibilities
of sex upstairs while over looking the coldest scene
of dark trees and a still life lake, late at night
she breathes to fog a window because there is nothing left to do
..........and you may have loved her
..........and you may have spoken so softly
..........and you may have handed her the whole world in a dirty paper cup
..........and she may have collected the handful of clothes she had
..........and walked out into the early morning light
..........and smiled just a little –
Bellocq,
I don’t know where you went after that
nor what she did wrong
so gently, you took her face apart with some scraping edge against glass, you
left her uneven, without a peak
and if only these listing clouds could support snow in Louisiana
maybe nobody would ever realize how much was really missing from this creation
you,
just stooping there, well under the curtain
adjusting the bellows with those dirty cracking fingers
never wanting to see the day directly again
you were making something –
I am sure of it.
**
return to sawbuck 4.1
**
Eric Huff wears a small piece of red bandana around his left ankle at all times as a reminder to live life more. He finds himself teaching in Kenosha, Wisconsin almost everyday as a result. Some of his poems appear in places such as The Outhouse, Verse Wisconsin, The Albion Review and Centrique. Huff also has a chapbook out that he calls in blues.
Labels: 4.1, eric huff, spring 2010
