Some Collected Works by Victor Kane
An Interactive Chapbook
Falling For Her
where are the keys to that shrunken world where my head used to be why can't i find my lighter why can't i find the lighter i had in my hand just a second ago or yesterday when my heart nicely in my head when i fit nicely in the room why is your face smiling across the sky like a shifting non-cloud i look at you in the mirror i see me and i understand why it would be unreasonable to rush out of the building to see you i must wait until my forearm and hand stop being invisible until then until the ecstasy coalesces into a solid boil am i crying or happy what is this where am i where is my lighter i just had it in my hand 10 marlboro lights box until then it will be awkward to go out it will be awkward to visit with my friends why is it that i cannot recognize the voices of people who call me why is it that i don't remember where the phone is kept i have taken you on several tours of my house and seen you in first encounter with parts of me you have not yet seen tree trunk to branch to twig to leaf and bud we have barely embraced each other we have barely touched we have barely been more than a few molecules of time in photosynthesis vanity vanity all is vanity all but my forearm and hand, missing for now, why is that? parts of me are not here why can't i move i speak to diego he is in something he calls a hurry, he is leaving he has to go i don't know where he's going, i thank him for introducing you to me and me to him but he somehow inexplicably doesn't think it's the most important thing in the world right now, talk to you later why doesn't my heart fit in my body, why is it cramming and breathing puffed in my head, why is my head why is my heart the size of my head, what is it doing in my head why is my head the size of the room why does my dick get so hard when i hear your voice on the phone why don't i know what to say to you? why am i in all parts of the room at once i am looking forward to getting up tomorrow and going to work how will all this resolve when i get up in the morning how will all of this fit in a morning what worries me is i was not upset when the taxi stopped for so much traffic where is my lighter did i leave it in the taxi did i leave it in your hand is it still in my hand why do objects keep disappearing my forearm and hand are back, now it's multidimensional parts of my leg i see you seeing my house for the first time, how your eyes look and fit with your smile how you hide your head how you were when we walked from where was it Santa Fe to Corrientes how the climate changed as we journeyed how you hid your face how you trembled and i recognized the moment and happiness was knowing that the time was seized without having to do anything special how we defined 2 or three words, how the rest of my words are asking themselves and each other if they still mean exactly the same thing as before, why does that make me want to cry, because i am making friends with the keyboard again, because that gladness in my heart is honey spread across the laptop screen by my heart sponging the keyboard, pushing random keys how i would like to be in you again, you are so tight like so young, you wanted me so there you took me in so deeply i kissed the seat of your womb with the tip of my lips, banging lightly against you, now that's talking, those are the secret words, the ineffable name, the walls of my heart are kissing the walls of your womb, that's why parts of my hip are missing in the mirror and i feel hungry and full and i am talking to all of my friends at once and i recognize the voice of no one who calls now instead of discovering the narrative in the poem, will i discover the poem in the narrative how many thousands of lines will i still write or is this the last one are you the only one? i bless the day i found you la la la laaa la la laaa is it the only let it be you i hope it's you you'll do why do you suck me so nicely with so many simultaneous mouths and in so many strange jim morrison languages? i was not as unappreciative as it looked trunk to bark to ant to air molecule a taste on my mouth i can't tell if i'm wearing clothes or not your giggling like an idiot your giggling like a schoolgirl why didn't i enter you propped up against a construction site door when you most needed me why did you kisses taste so sweet why did we walk and kiss like a Chagall flying couple or fish why was it raining and we all wet where is my lighter? how you moved forever against me how you hug me and never let me go II your are blonde but black to me i see your back your body bending over me your body fits so nicely to my hands walking into the kitchen and finding parts of myself that have not thought air for years whispering in pleasure and/or crying "choked with emotion" breathing is an event that takes place every few hours whether i need it or not just to keep in practice just to keep just it's true you don't jump or squirm when i kiss your neck but when i run my hands over all the roundness of your silken body you boil you boil meeting that part of me that cries when i go in the kitchen and look at the masses of white clouds and your smile spread across the face of the sky
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About Victor Kane
Victor Kane was born and raised in London, England and dutifully ran around the lakes at Hampstead Heath in grey vest and running shorts with his classmates.
Victor Kane was born and raised in San Diego at the age of 12 and in Los Angeles at the age of 16 and in New York at the age of 21, where he arrived on a motorbike dressed in gray jeans and parked a couple blocks from Columbia University in what was gonna be ’68.
Moving right along and skipping a bit here and there (his first novel planned to come out in serial form one day soon in the coming months will tell you more), he was born and raised in Buenos Aires at the age of 27, where he taught English as a second language, and his eyes and mind were opened wide by the literary workshops there and the activists that populated them.
Still is.
And he’s been writing all the time.
Now he’s looking to publish what he’s written.
Then he’s looking to publish what he’s writing.
And he’s seeing about writing and publishing as a practice. Sort of like a legal practice. Or a medical practice. But no, as a writing practice.
Victor Kane is excited and eager to let you know what that will look like.
Then he’ll know and be in the thick of it.
Hoping we’re all in this together.