Respect
I have cave paintings on the inside of my skull
Respect
by Bob Hicok
Cows are cool enough to be born wearing their leather jackets—the milk ones behind us are quiet and scholarly over their plates of grass, while the beef ones below often scream like they’re young and watching The Shining for the first time— it’s as if they know the blades are coming and scream’s not quite the right word, as saying I have cave paintings on the inside of my skull tells you I hail from hunter-gatherers but isn’t meant as a description of the actual decor—the thing about the screaming is it makes me order a bowl of beets and mushroom soup at the restaurant when otherwise I might have asked for the waiter’s heart on a spike—it’s a rhythmic sound that has blood and rust deep inside it— almost a catching of breath on razor wire or waking from a dream of falling down an elevator shaft to find you’re naked and have to give a speech while falling down an elevator shaft—it makes the bucolic creepy in the dark and creepy under full sail of sun—but not the milk cows— the milk cows are half ton whispers— their udders seem to levitate and meditate—I look at them as clouds that have made emergency landings— that have slightly more modest ambitions for rain and shade but nonetheless are still eager for a life as weather— this is just a little of what it’s like to live in what we call “the country”— think of it as a painting in a museum that sometimes smells of shit and sometimes a bear walks through the painting and mauls the dew and sometimes vultures weave a circle in the air and you wonder below them, are they here for me and I’m overdressed for the demise— as I’m telling you I plan to wear a tuxedo, both to yours and mine
First Published in Poetry City, USA, Vol. 5
