Poetry by Guest Contributor, Matthew Dickman

I heard the dog crying all night in the car and wanted my owner.
I heard the rain.
I heard about what was happening in that place.
I heard the freeway and elevators and landing gears and also nothing.
I heard I was dying.
I heard the room when the room walked away.
I heard the floor when I fainted.
I heard everything that was left over and also someone calling out.
I heard the brain seize up.
I heard about what happened and how it sounded really bad and I’m sorry.
I heard the call to prayer.
I heard white linen and floss and dispatches and a single piece of paper.
I heard dark all around.
I heard dark all around and a seashell.
I heard you would never come back and also the moon.
I heard the moon knocking its teeth out.
I heard the computer start up and the rice cooking and the groom smoking.
I heard myself and wanted to cut it into ribbons.
I heard the party start.
I heard people laughing at me and why shouldn’t they?
I heard I hesitated.
I heard the expression on your face and people speaking in a submarine.
I heard the men in the stairwell.
I heard the biting and pulling and curled up brother alone in the bedroom.

I was in the shape of the cross.
I was nothing and also my feet and my hands and my mouth.
I was going to tell you.
I was standing in the street with the cars and also the police cars.
I was the violin in the envelope.
I was making a kind of music everyone hates.
I was really little.
I was look at me when I’m talking to you or I swear to God.
I was shut the fuck up.
I was you’re ruining Christmas is that what you want?
I was the ashtray and the umbrella and the lipstick and nothing.
I was in two cities at once.
I was born on this day.
I was born and also Novocain.
I was going to tell you.
I was the thing you never should be and also pocketknives.
I was ringing.
I was only going to be a minute.
I was the walk into the park and also what happened there.
I was the grapefruit spoon and the eye.
I was the migraine and the hydro-motion of very, very, tall buildings.
I was the skateboard and the bat.
I was the you get in here on the count of five or you’re gonna get it.
I was the projectionist and the grave.

I happened to myself and everything disappeared.
I happened to be walking.
I happened and you where there and scared.
I happened to be an addict.
I happened with the glass in the bathtub.
I happened and there was a sound that came from heaven.
I happened and it was quiet.
I happened and your mouth blew open like a soda can.
I happened in high school.
I happened in my mother’s lap and the dead starlings.
I happened to be standing next to you.
I happened to the room before the room hung itself.
I happened to be lying.
I happened to download all the things that make you insecure.
I happened and it began to rain.
I happened to be an orange you were eating.
I happened to be a body that moves like a long dash and hamburger.
I happened to be the stove door and the pretty lady, circa 1950.
I happened to be nothing important.
I happened like a cake full of light bulbs and a bat.
I happened to be barefoot and a worm.
I happened to be the worm.
I happened to be there when the dog turned back into a boy.
I happened to the scissors when all they wanted was to happen to me.

Matthew Dickman is a poet from Portland, Oregon. His poems have appeared in several of the country’s most celebrated literary magazines. He is the recipient of, among other awards, the Honickman First Book Prize. His most recent book of poems is Mayakovsky’s Revolver. The following poems are for a cycle called “24 Hours.”