Liquidity issues by Bob Hicok

I open the door but the fog won't take me in.

I wear a white shirt to resemble the kiss

of the fog but the fog won't take me in. I ask

the psychologist who says whatever you feel

is fine if feeling like killing a psychologist

who says whatever you feel is fine is fine

but the fog won't take me in. I have been

open, well dressed and honest about my feelings

but the fog won't take me in. I was not told

how difficult it would be to be the lover

of fog. Of all the things I wasn't told,

not being told I wouldn't be told

many things was salt in the wounds.

Wouldn't salt in the wounds

make you want to eat the body?

Never mind me. Mind the fog. She is beautiful.

I am not supposed to say beautiful

in a poem. She is beauty full.

We should be given a book at birth

full of everything we're not going

to be told. Instead we are spanked at birth.

Notice that some of us spanked at birth

can't express our love for water

suspended in air without violence

entering the fray. I want violence

to exit the fray. I want the fray

to be neutered of the fray. Therefore

I have cause to say therefore,

to lean my mouth against the fog.

Resting there, my lips have little to do

but hum until the soft shell of water breaks.

Now the soft shell of water breaks,

now the sun.