(Nore–Today is the first day of three featuring the poetry of Eric Huff. He will appear today, tomorrow and Monday. We feel the readers will like his stuff as much as we do–The Eds.)
I want you to call me by whatever name you want. call me the river road. call me the western motel on the river road. listen to me tell you about my scrap metal dreams, about my literal scrap metal dreams and berry bramble night terrors. you have a sleeper in your eye again. start unfolding each of these paper cranes so I can get a better look at the printed patterns. more than half of these are just black and white photocopies of my face but with one or two subtle differences. look at this one, my eyes are closed. and here, the part in my hair is mirrored. the record of this day is being played back in reverse and it’s only now that I can hear your voice – like a cactus bloom at 1am this is something I have waited for. please say something lovely. say something right. breathe in all this moonshine.
Eric Huff
Rivulets
my dream? bluestem moves in rivulets.
winter cress, wild ginger, the cattail –
when I die, I want you to open all the
windows and drink cold water right from the sink.
Eric Huff
(Image is of the poet)
Saragun Springs 
I found myself blinking thoughtfully at Eric Huff’s arresting poetry. He uses words the way that musicians use the musical scale, to take us hither and yon. I would try to be more expressive, but alas, I’m not the poet that he is. Breathtaking stuff
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Hi Eric
We are pleased to see your stuff up today, and for the days to come.
You twist thoughts in an admirable way. And you show range in styles.
Leila
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Eric
I truly admire the way your poems use rhythm and repetition. Both of these are utilized here in a subtle yet decisive way that evokes mood, feeling, atmosphere.
Your semi-surrealistic heartland images remind me of the semi-surrealistic heartland images of the great Sam Shepard. The voice contains both intimacy and distance, which is the American way. Love and leaving both feel present in these pieces. The love dies when we stay and revives when we go away (and only when we go away) and that is the heartbreak of life.
Dale
PS
These poems continue to reveal more of themselves upon repeated readings: one of the absolute surest signs of “real” poetry; a test of real poetry that is not well-nigh scientific, but IS scientific.
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