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Richard Siken 1 A man saw a bird and found him beautiful. The bird had a song inside him, and feathers. Sometimes the man felt like the bird and sometimes the man felt like a stone—solid, inevitable—but mostly he felt like a bird, or that there was a bird inside him, or that something inside him was like a bird fluttering. This went on for a long time. The problem, if there was one, was simply a problem with the question. Why paint a bird? Why do anything at all?
Not how, because hows are easy—series or sequence, one foot after the other—but existentially why bother, what does it solve? Who gets to measure the distance between experience and its representation?
Who controls the lines of inquiry? We do. Anyone can. Blackbird, he says. So be it, indexed and normative. The hand is a voice that can sing what the voice will not, and the hand wants to do something useful. Sometimes, at night, in bed, before I fall asleep, I think about a poem I might write, someday, about my heart, says the heart. They looked at the walls of the cave. This is earlier, these are different men. They painted in torchlight: red mostly, sometimes black—mammoth, lion, horse, bear—things on a wall, in profile or superimposed, dynamic and alert.
Theories: about the nature of the thing. And of the soul. Because people die. The fear: that nothing survives. The greater fear: that something does. The night sky is vast and wide. They huddled closer, shoulder to shoulder, painted themselves in herds, all together and apart from the rest.
They looked at the sky, and at the mud, and at their hands in the mud, and their dead friends in the mud. To be a man on a hill, or all the men on all the hills, or half a man shivering in the flock of himself. These are some choices. A man had two birds in his head—not in his throat, not in his chest—and the birds would sing all day never stopping. The man thought to himself, One of these birds is not my bird.
The birds agreed.
[PDF] Crush Book by Richard Siken Free Download (62 pages)
Every morning another chapter where the hero shifts from one foot to the other. Every morning the same big and little words all spelling out desire, all spelling out You will be alone always and then you will die. So maybe I wanted to give you something more than a catalog of non-definitive acts, something other than the desperation. You want a better story. A forest, then.
The Language of the Birds
Richard Siken 1 A man saw a bird and found him beautiful. The bird had a song inside him, and feathers. Sometimes the man felt like the bird and sometimes the man felt like a stone—solid, inevitable—but mostly he felt like a bird, or that there was a bird inside him, or that something inside him was like a bird fluttering. This went on for a long time.
Crush by Richard Siken - PDF free download eBook
Zurisar When was the last time you found yourself looking out of this window. Time drags in elongated moments, or appears in flashes of memory and scenescape. History is a little man in a brown suit trying to define a room he is outside of. The one on the left has gone bad in the middle, and the other one on the left is about to.
CRUSH BY RICHARD SIKEN PDF