emily dickinson to the rescue.
via • linkAt a local poetry reading tonight, one of the readers kept making reference to his “chest brain.” I don’t know what that is, but it kept making me think of Michael Dickman’s “Brain Death” or otherwise oft-mentioned brains. And then I just wanted to go read Michael Dickman.
Standing in her house today all I could think of was whether she took a shit every morning or ever fucked anybody or ever fucked herself God's poet singing herself to sleep You want these sorts of things for people Bodies and the earth and the earth inside Instead of white nightgowns and terrifying letters * Here she comes her hands out in front of her like a child flying above its bed at night Her ankles and wrists held tightly between the fingers of some brightly lit parent home from a party Flying Her spine spinning Singing "Here I come!" Her legs pumping her heart out * Heaven is everywhere but there's still the world The world is made out of cancer, house fires, and Brain Death, here in America But I love the world Emily Dickinson to the rescue I used to think we were made of bread gentle work and water We're not but we're still beautiful killing each other as much as we can beneath the pines The pines that are somebody's masterpiece
—Michael Dickman
