Barbara Henning
from DIGIGRAMS
STEP CAREFULLY / JAN 7, 2017
--my husband goes on a safari—at that time of year—I love yoga—I’m only having the cleaning woman—once a week now—next month we’re going to the Canary Islands—alphabet city upside down—at Angelica’s—our favorite table—Lewis says he’ll retire—in a few years—Harris going to Mexico—can’t afford rent here—middle class bailing, lower class falling—snow covering the streets and cars—the trees in the park—branches crisscrossing overhead—snow in Istanbul today, too—magical—standing here—in front of Cafe Pick Me Up—now empty—from $6,000 a month to $15,000—soon to be Starbucks—snow on my shoulders—behind a cloud a super moon—seven percent larger than normal—step carefully—an icy sidewalk—Avenue A—one empty building—after another—luxury apartments for rent--
AS THE BULLY WORLD TURNS / MAY 17, 2017
—on the white house flagpole—an eagle—when vervet monkies—see a marital eagle—they make a low pitched—staccato r-r-raup—then run for the suburbs—at the fraternal order—as the bully world turns—old men pose—hands against the wall—in cowboy hats—an icon sprouting an arrow—this way—$300 cab to Canada—everyone trying—to figure out—how to get a plaque—mother of the year—teacher of the year--I got one last year—my passenger says—the engine running—I put her walker—in the trunk— in honor of women—the men cook—greasy hash browns—processed beef—with a precision unknown—in human history—we can now predict the life—of an engine part—78-year-old Ron Hill—takes a rest—after running—every day for 52 years—and 39 days—we aim to grow old—gracefully—but an aim—is only an aim--
THE EYE OF THE OBSERVER / MAY 20, 2017
—heading East—on the Edsel Ford Freeway—Joni Mitchell’s Blue—the last time she saw Richard—was Detroit in 68—soon Ford will create—energy-efficient buildings—linked by self-driving vehicles—a snowy night in 76—spinning around—on the ice— 360 degree turn—our baby on my lap—Allen driving—now I pass—the giant Uniroyal tire—minutes later—exit Trumbull Avenue—4711 Avery Street—back then—secretly—dreaming—pretty lies—a symphony musician—who carried—a leather shoulder bag—he was shooting heroin—a good looking guy—my brother says—he caught my eye and smiled—the observer’s eye—sometimes—pulls you into the center—at 28— I chose the periphery—for the time being—Barbara Chover cut Allen’s hair—love so sweet—I let him cut mine—we sold our motorcycles—and I started grad school—becoming—for the time being—grownups with children--
THE ONLY ONE / MAY 21, 2017
—in LA—a man walks along—sees a camera—makes a u turn—starts posing—in NOLA—with Robert E. Lee—removed—the police—take a break—at a walk-in beer cooler—in Iran—couples now walk—hand-in-hand—the Ayatollah blinks—his ever seeing eye—even though—the bully tweets—anti-muslim—this and that—the Saudis—treat him—as royalty—they all sway—and dance—even the bully’s—top supporter—a billionaire financier—who later—gets an enormous investment—from Saudi Arabia—on the east shore—of Lake Michigan—my sister and I—stroll along, buy a muffin—drive back—to Kalamazoo—we watch—a utube—Jimmy Fallon—dancing with Michelle—Stevie Wonder singing—after five months—with the cruelty—ineptitude—Cloud Computing—breaks away—rushes ahead—of Always Dreaming—and like people—in church—we sing along—our Michelle amour—sweet as flowers—bloom in May—Michelle amour—the only one that we adore--
POW! / MAY 24, 2017
—check into a motel—in Indiana—broken door—no frig—convey your trust—and sometimes—optimal options—the Taliban overran—four security check points—families on house lock down—lock out—at dinner—my cousin says—she voted—for a third party—when we were girls—she could recite—every swear word—in fifteen seconds—you helped put the bully in— unintended—albeit—now he’s laying—his hate hands—on our glowing orb--just politics—nothing more to say—look at family photos—my father’s car—and a sign—vote for Nixon—vote for Vietnam—Mohammad Ali said No No No—I won’t go—Pow!—driving—I don’t know where—pitch dark—in a dirt parking lot—gps—map me forward—miles across—the Atlantic—sixty ambulances—speed toward carnage—in Manchester—hate begets hate—so we strip—turn on the shower—Mr. Ali—the little boy asks—can I have your autograph? --
TOMPKINS SQUARE / JULY, 12, 2017
—on location—the Grateful Dead’s—first East Coast show—Prabhupada’s first US kirtan—chanting and dancing—in Tompkins Square—a rebellious artifact—or ultimate destination—to blow a trumpet—bang on some buckets—if I had money—I’d buy a tiny apartment—across the street—a comeback with millennials—a micro machine—with its own heartbeat— trying to find a dot—in the pacific—Amelia Earhart disappears—upward—an old stately elm—leans toward me—then the voluminous sound—of branches cracking—only a few left—then this tree will be gone—In Mosul—Isis leaves behind—blurred Disney figures—and piles of—religious rubble—gone like—the birdhouse tree—the men now say—they’ll let women—make birdhouses—to my left—a guy dozing—on a park bench—a tropical print short-sleeved—button-down—100 percent rayon—a lovely shade of blue—the ultra rich have great views—but trees do poorly—in the shade—I, on the other hand—love sitting here—under the Krishna tree—eating chocolate—and looking—across the street—at my old apartment--
ROOM TO RUN / JULY 30, 2017
—dreaming downtown Detroit—an alley—a bomb planted—don’t tell anyone—instead—tap dance—to a desk—in the First Federal Building—shuffling papers—rearranging pens and pencils—ask the doctor—can I leave—no, he says, no—minutes before—the first explosion—running—past Kinsel’s Drug Store—in one door—down narrow aisles—out another—a home run—past Greenfield’s Cafeteria—when my economy—had room to run—in Hudson’s and Crowley’s—the smell of perfume—out the door—with scented keepsakes—so alluring—they might make—a shipwreck—past little shops—on narrow streets—where high ladder fire trucks—have trouble maneuvering—lawn green high heels—and matching skirt—whew—catch the Jefferson Avenue bus—head east—an 18 year old secretary—in 67—looking out the back window—St Jean burning—one building crumbling—after another—Detroit implodes—behind me—my place, my childhood—never to return--
STEP CAREFULLY / JAN 7, 2017
--my husband goes on a safari—at that time of year—I love yoga—I’m only having the cleaning woman—once a week now—next month we’re going to the Canary Islands—alphabet city upside down—at Angelica’s—our favorite table—Lewis says he’ll retire—in a few years—Harris going to Mexico—can’t afford rent here—middle class bailing, lower class falling—snow covering the streets and cars—the trees in the park—branches crisscrossing overhead—snow in Istanbul today, too—magical—standing here—in front of Cafe Pick Me Up—now empty—from $6,000 a month to $15,000—soon to be Starbucks—snow on my shoulders—behind a cloud a super moon—seven percent larger than normal—step carefully—an icy sidewalk—Avenue A—one empty building—after another—luxury apartments for rent--
AS THE BULLY WORLD TURNS / MAY 17, 2017
—on the white house flagpole—an eagle—when vervet monkies—see a marital eagle—they make a low pitched—staccato r-r-raup—then run for the suburbs—at the fraternal order—as the bully world turns—old men pose—hands against the wall—in cowboy hats—an icon sprouting an arrow—this way—$300 cab to Canada—everyone trying—to figure out—how to get a plaque—mother of the year—teacher of the year--I got one last year—my passenger says—the engine running—I put her walker—in the trunk— in honor of women—the men cook—greasy hash browns—processed beef—with a precision unknown—in human history—we can now predict the life—of an engine part—78-year-old Ron Hill—takes a rest—after running—every day for 52 years—and 39 days—we aim to grow old—gracefully—but an aim—is only an aim--
THE EYE OF THE OBSERVER / MAY 20, 2017
—heading East—on the Edsel Ford Freeway—Joni Mitchell’s Blue—the last time she saw Richard—was Detroit in 68—soon Ford will create—energy-efficient buildings—linked by self-driving vehicles—a snowy night in 76—spinning around—on the ice— 360 degree turn—our baby on my lap—Allen driving—now I pass—the giant Uniroyal tire—minutes later—exit Trumbull Avenue—4711 Avery Street—back then—secretly—dreaming—pretty lies—a symphony musician—who carried—a leather shoulder bag—he was shooting heroin—a good looking guy—my brother says—he caught my eye and smiled—the observer’s eye—sometimes—pulls you into the center—at 28— I chose the periphery—for the time being—Barbara Chover cut Allen’s hair—love so sweet—I let him cut mine—we sold our motorcycles—and I started grad school—becoming—for the time being—grownups with children--
THE ONLY ONE / MAY 21, 2017
—in LA—a man walks along—sees a camera—makes a u turn—starts posing—in NOLA—with Robert E. Lee—removed—the police—take a break—at a walk-in beer cooler—in Iran—couples now walk—hand-in-hand—the Ayatollah blinks—his ever seeing eye—even though—the bully tweets—anti-muslim—this and that—the Saudis—treat him—as royalty—they all sway—and dance—even the bully’s—top supporter—a billionaire financier—who later—gets an enormous investment—from Saudi Arabia—on the east shore—of Lake Michigan—my sister and I—stroll along, buy a muffin—drive back—to Kalamazoo—we watch—a utube—Jimmy Fallon—dancing with Michelle—Stevie Wonder singing—after five months—with the cruelty—ineptitude—Cloud Computing—breaks away—rushes ahead—of Always Dreaming—and like people—in church—we sing along—our Michelle amour—sweet as flowers—bloom in May—Michelle amour—the only one that we adore--
POW! / MAY 24, 2017
—check into a motel—in Indiana—broken door—no frig—convey your trust—and sometimes—optimal options—the Taliban overran—four security check points—families on house lock down—lock out—at dinner—my cousin says—she voted—for a third party—when we were girls—she could recite—every swear word—in fifteen seconds—you helped put the bully in— unintended—albeit—now he’s laying—his hate hands—on our glowing orb--just politics—nothing more to say—look at family photos—my father’s car—and a sign—vote for Nixon—vote for Vietnam—Mohammad Ali said No No No—I won’t go—Pow!—driving—I don’t know where—pitch dark—in a dirt parking lot—gps—map me forward—miles across—the Atlantic—sixty ambulances—speed toward carnage—in Manchester—hate begets hate—so we strip—turn on the shower—Mr. Ali—the little boy asks—can I have your autograph? --
TOMPKINS SQUARE / JULY, 12, 2017
—on location—the Grateful Dead’s—first East Coast show—Prabhupada’s first US kirtan—chanting and dancing—in Tompkins Square—a rebellious artifact—or ultimate destination—to blow a trumpet—bang on some buckets—if I had money—I’d buy a tiny apartment—across the street—a comeback with millennials—a micro machine—with its own heartbeat— trying to find a dot—in the pacific—Amelia Earhart disappears—upward—an old stately elm—leans toward me—then the voluminous sound—of branches cracking—only a few left—then this tree will be gone—In Mosul—Isis leaves behind—blurred Disney figures—and piles of—religious rubble—gone like—the birdhouse tree—the men now say—they’ll let women—make birdhouses—to my left—a guy dozing—on a park bench—a tropical print short-sleeved—button-down—100 percent rayon—a lovely shade of blue—the ultra rich have great views—but trees do poorly—in the shade—I, on the other hand—love sitting here—under the Krishna tree—eating chocolate—and looking—across the street—at my old apartment--
ROOM TO RUN / JULY 30, 2017
—dreaming downtown Detroit—an alley—a bomb planted—don’t tell anyone—instead—tap dance—to a desk—in the First Federal Building—shuffling papers—rearranging pens and pencils—ask the doctor—can I leave—no, he says, no—minutes before—the first explosion—running—past Kinsel’s Drug Store—in one door—down narrow aisles—out another—a home run—past Greenfield’s Cafeteria—when my economy—had room to run—in Hudson’s and Crowley’s—the smell of perfume—out the door—with scented keepsakes—so alluring—they might make—a shipwreck—past little shops—on narrow streets—where high ladder fire trucks—have trouble maneuvering—lawn green high heels—and matching skirt—whew—catch the Jefferson Avenue bus—head east—an 18 year old secretary—in 67—looking out the back window—St Jean burning—one building crumbling—after another—Detroit implodes—behind me—my place, my childhood—never to return--