Bob Hicok

Bob Hicok’s most recent book, Elegy Owed, will be published in the spring of 2013 by Copper Canyon Press.

Poetry

Nov/Dec 2019

Sigh

By Bob Hicok

Either crickets, frogs, or Republicans will become extinct here in a few decades as temps rise. Or bees, apple trees, mosquitoes. No one knows what will go, just that the […]

Poetry

Nov/Dec 2019

After You

By Bob Hicok

It’s not too late to schlep water in a bucket to your sink. Eat only the potatoes and carrots you can grow. Make your own clothes from hemp and clouds. […]

Poetry

Nov/Dec 2018

Sincere

By Bob Hicok

People craved meth, now oxy. People are fickle bastards at the product level, though addiction itself is bankable as horse shit. Has there ever been a culture used that as […]

"Oh Abuse": Poets Regarding Pain

Jan/Feb 2016

Court of Law

By Bob Hicok

The man to my right was famous. Infamous. He had tortured and was handsome. The interview shows had recently devoured his eloquence and beauty. I’d seen him the night before […]

"Oh Abuse": Poets Regarding Pain

Jan/Feb 2016

Constitutional

By Bob Hicok

Your grandmother—and not just her dementia but anticipating your mother’s, your own—walking is who we talk about—away from town— in the hospital again today you miss—up hills until we can […]

Poetry

Summer 2012

Elegy owed

By Bob Hicok

In other languages you are beautiful—mort, muerto—I wish I spoke moon, I wish the bottom of the ocean were sitting in that chair playing cards and noticing how famous you […]

Poetry

Summer 2009

See side

By Bob Hicok

Mind as wave: whoosh. As wet. As yet thinking needs a dress to wear, what better look than sea green or sea foam, within never gets out without without, how […]

Poetry

Summer 2009

Note to self

By Bob Hicok

Here: settled. This I am doing amends rend, wholes. Who finds that: the boat, the oars, can say to flood: I rise above. The best of? Don’t know, but by […]

Poetry

Fall 2005

Quarantine

By Bob Hicok

Orange Cat yowls in the next room. Fog again, the shyness of land. I'm awake, not awake, there's coffee, a split apple on the desk, I'm self-conscious, mine is a […]

Poetry

Spring 2003

Elsewhere

By Bob Hicok

When we were Pangaea, maps were smaller and vacations easier. Where do you want to go? I don’t know …Pangaea. The idea that continents are restless is very American. At […]

Poetry

Spring 2003

To Err Is Humid

By Bob Hicok

for D. Long ago we sat on a lake. He said Errata sounds erotic, I get excited by mistakes. Snow was falling in a lonely way, many feet between flakes. […]

Poetry

Spring 2003

Red Licorice

By Bob Hicok

Turns out the universe is an accordion. I take this as vindication of the polka. If it began with the Big Bang will it end with the Big Suck? I […]

Poetry

Spring 1999

How Origami Was Invented

By Bob Hicok

The last I went to confession was to whisper I like being alone. I was penanced to sing “Stayin’ Alive” one hundred times. Solitude almost tastes like grapes, of course […]

Poetry

Winter 1998

Waiting for UPS

By Bob Hicok

Now I live inside the window. Now I think the sky doesn’t have enough sky today and that all the trees have cancer and are whispering their little coughs to […]

Poetry

Winter 1995

Your Daughter

By Bob Hicok

When she phones at two   stammering the boyfriend’s name and the list of ingested riches, a potion        of three-dollar wine, blotter and pills she calls Bullets        but you remember as […]