Bob Heman
from INFORMATION
Bob Heman is full of information. He lives in Brooklyn on the west end of Long Island.
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from INFORMATION
INFORMATION
The women are put in the cage so that they don’t fall out. The vehicle has no seats except for the one the driver uses. The road between the fields is rough and bumpy. They can get out any time they want. Most of the time the cage is used for vegetables or feed or chickens, but on Sunday it is the only way they can go to worship. The village is distant and the women are no longer young. There are no other vehicles.
INFORMATION
Half of it no more than a description. The other half the distance they must travel.
INFORMATION
Entered the room where sex was only a rumor and the forest had not yet grown deep enough to be seen. It was there the animals were given names and the word “here” finally had a meaning.
INFORMATION
Something quantifiable, like the imagination that fills the cans lining the shelf in the assumed kitchen that obscures the available light. This was what she thought the calls of the crickets said, what she thought the moans of the lovers represented, what she thought the word “blank” revealed once it was dissected. She never saw the man who refuted her claims to sanity, to comprehension, to an intelligence separate from what the sky provided. It was only the first time she had been made available to the examiners.
INFORMATION
The kids yelling “easy out” never saw the star that filled the sky behind them, never saw the rodent that limped across the outfield grass, never saw the woman who was no more than a shadow of what was to come. Their game was an exception to the wrong turns their lives were given, an exception to the distance that led them back to where they began.
INFORMATION
Confuses the chicks with the eggs they would become.
INFORMATION
There is a child who may or may not have been killed. There is a sunset or sunrise that happened too soon. There is an animal they are unable to recognize, and a building that is really a pile of rocks. There is a song that explains the ocean, and another that is only a woman combing her long dark hair.
INFORMATION
They will learn how to make weapons. They will learn how to escape. They will learn that fire has many uses. They will learn that there are others who are not quite like them. They will learn about food, and clothing. They will learn about the stars.
INFORMATION
The fact that there was no table was notable.
INFORMATION
“I’ve seen pictures,” he said. But they never seemed real. He was still afraid to open the door, still afraid to remove the garments the priestess wore. “I’ve seen pictures,” he repeated. They had caused his body to become alive. There was no name for what he felt. No word that was ever real enough. He put his hand on the handle, and sighed.
INFORMATION
It was raining inside her. It was raining inside the room. It was raining in Cleveland. It was raining where the sky ended. It was raining inside the word “perhaps.” It was raining inside each number.
INFORMATION
They are supposed to eat caviar and drink champagne. They are not supposed to recognize the duck’s feet. Each time the circle is drawn it will be incomplete. Still they remain unable to step inside. The door they must use is only drawn on.
INFORMATION
She did not know if her story should be classified as “true crime” or “romance” or “natural science.” She did not know if the title should be printed in red ink or blue. She did not know if there would ever be a sequel. She did not know if anyone would ever read it out loud.
INFORMATION
“She learned how to play a woman’s games when she was still a girl.” But what was overheard was not true. He needed a car to exist in the world she created. It was always night there, always a destination he would never reach.
INFORMATION
The code written on the soles of his shoes was a sonnet about birds, about the hesitations of the wind. They only found it after his body was carried away, after his coat no longer served a reasonable purpose, after the markings on the floor became the subject of gossip.
The women are put in the cage so that they don’t fall out. The vehicle has no seats except for the one the driver uses. The road between the fields is rough and bumpy. They can get out any time they want. Most of the time the cage is used for vegetables or feed or chickens, but on Sunday it is the only way they can go to worship. The village is distant and the women are no longer young. There are no other vehicles.
INFORMATION
Half of it no more than a description. The other half the distance they must travel.
INFORMATION
Entered the room where sex was only a rumor and the forest had not yet grown deep enough to be seen. It was there the animals were given names and the word “here” finally had a meaning.
INFORMATION
Something quantifiable, like the imagination that fills the cans lining the shelf in the assumed kitchen that obscures the available light. This was what she thought the calls of the crickets said, what she thought the moans of the lovers represented, what she thought the word “blank” revealed once it was dissected. She never saw the man who refuted her claims to sanity, to comprehension, to an intelligence separate from what the sky provided. It was only the first time she had been made available to the examiners.
INFORMATION
The kids yelling “easy out” never saw the star that filled the sky behind them, never saw the rodent that limped across the outfield grass, never saw the woman who was no more than a shadow of what was to come. Their game was an exception to the wrong turns their lives were given, an exception to the distance that led them back to where they began.
INFORMATION
Confuses the chicks with the eggs they would become.
INFORMATION
There is a child who may or may not have been killed. There is a sunset or sunrise that happened too soon. There is an animal they are unable to recognize, and a building that is really a pile of rocks. There is a song that explains the ocean, and another that is only a woman combing her long dark hair.
INFORMATION
They will learn how to make weapons. They will learn how to escape. They will learn that fire has many uses. They will learn that there are others who are not quite like them. They will learn about food, and clothing. They will learn about the stars.
INFORMATION
The fact that there was no table was notable.
INFORMATION
“I’ve seen pictures,” he said. But they never seemed real. He was still afraid to open the door, still afraid to remove the garments the priestess wore. “I’ve seen pictures,” he repeated. They had caused his body to become alive. There was no name for what he felt. No word that was ever real enough. He put his hand on the handle, and sighed.
INFORMATION
It was raining inside her. It was raining inside the room. It was raining in Cleveland. It was raining where the sky ended. It was raining inside the word “perhaps.” It was raining inside each number.
INFORMATION
They are supposed to eat caviar and drink champagne. They are not supposed to recognize the duck’s feet. Each time the circle is drawn it will be incomplete. Still they remain unable to step inside. The door they must use is only drawn on.
INFORMATION
She did not know if her story should be classified as “true crime” or “romance” or “natural science.” She did not know if the title should be printed in red ink or blue. She did not know if there would ever be a sequel. She did not know if anyone would ever read it out loud.
INFORMATION
“She learned how to play a woman’s games when she was still a girl.” But what was overheard was not true. He needed a car to exist in the world she created. It was always night there, always a destination he would never reach.
INFORMATION
The code written on the soles of his shoes was a sonnet about birds, about the hesitations of the wind. They only found it after his body was carried away, after his coat no longer served a reasonable purpose, after the markings on the floor became the subject of gossip.
Bob Heman is full of information. He lives in Brooklyn on the west end of Long Island.
posted by mark young at 11:06 AM
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