Bob Heman


from INFORMATION

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A poem without adjectives. A poem without adverbs. A poem without numbers or colors or women carrying baskets. A poem without bicycles. A poem without diagrams or windows that cannot be opened. A poem without a woman whose hair is no more than a metaphor. A poem without frogs or bears. A poem without meaning. A poem that is never old enough to cast a shadow.



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Forgets that there was love. But still weeps for it sometimes.


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Every one was a twin.



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Confuses the mirror with the onion. Thinks “to swim” is to add another color. The man with the beard was only a photo of a tree. What is labeled is repeated in the sky. That was when the woman became an explanation.



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No longer remembers how to kiss. No longer remembers the trees, nor the way words can be constructed. No longer remembers the bears, but listens just the same.



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Did not know if it was oil or blood that oozed from the ground. Did not know what it was the demons drank, or what words were required to sate their hungers. Did not know if the woman was the first or the last.



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I was complete then, but without enough language to begin again.


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The blue chair was red in the later editions. The words spoken only a pause in the silence. He became taller without understanding why, but still he couldn't reach the sky.



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Of course there's always a full moon. And a postman with a sack full of coconuts. And a machine that must remain hidden. And a caption that leads us in the wrong direction.


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What is overheard is often misinterpreted. The actual transformed by the desire for it to be something else. If he asks again it will be a different question even though he uses the same words.

Bob Heman's words have been translated into Spanish, Farsi, Arabic, Italian and Hungarian. He lives on the west end of Long Island in what was once the city of Brooklyn.

 
 

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