John Lee Clark

An erasure of Lydia Huntley Sigourney’s “On Seeing the Deaf, Dumb, and Blind Girl, Sitting for Her Portrait” Guide, passion, catch what Hath no speech. Unknown Joys, power, and meditation’s Unfolding sky. Feeling draws Heart and wildering language Still without speech to Mind. Philosophy fails to Sway this future child.

there’s nothing in my face. There is nothing in yours. What we have are called heads. They are nothing unless we kiss. Lips are wonderful. They are full of mechanoreceptors. In the Old World we all used to kiss and kiss. It was then that we did have faces. We had noses and cheeks and foreheads and soft, downy hair. In the New World we stopped kissing. Those who were already here stopped. Those who came stopped. Now there are only four people who have heads that are also faces. They are an artist and three children for whom I have a face other than my hands.

An erasure of Henry Wadsworth Longfellow’s “Palingenesis” I, sobbing in the rolling mist, Started for peopled days. In dreams A faded, lonely promontory shed petals. Belief exists. Cunning with its perfume Working from youth, defiance. A phantom Vanished. The swift surrenders, leap into The old dead heart of lies. I will give, remembering my turns Into foliage. Of what light unseen! What, what, what, what, what, what Will hold still without its end?

A Deaf Blind poet doesn’t like to read sitting up. A Deaf Blind poet likes to read Braille magazines on the john. A Deaf Blind poet is in the habit of composing nineteenth-century letters and pressing Alt+S. 
A Deaf Blind poet is a terrible student. A Deaf Blind poet does a lot of groundbreaking research. A Deaf Blind poet is always in demand. A Deaf Blind poet has yet to be gainfully employed. A Deaf Blind poet shares all his trade secrets with his children. A Deaf Blind poet will not stop if police order him to. A Deaf Blind poet used to like dogs but now prefers cats. A Deaf Blind poet listens to his wife. 
A Deaf Blind poet knits soft things for his dear friends. A Deaf Blind poet doesn’t believe in “contributing to society.”

An erasure of  Laura Redden Searing’s “My Story” Generous instinct, were you My hand I must Think. The later brain. My hands craving every Learned heart. Nature, art, World. In my memories I thought of trust Then all fear. I Fell on my pain. Hope shall in loss Throb. My, my, my Stand for the release. A nation’s groan beneath Dear night. All right.

Near the Naked Juices I passed A man my fingers walking Across his back he turned and held up A box said what Might this be I said oh You’re tactile too what’s your name He said William Amos Miller I said I thought you were born in 1872 he said so You know who I am yes you’re the man Who journeyed to the center of Earth In your mind he smiled on my arm said do You know that the Earth also journeyed To the center of my mind I said I never thought of that he asked Again about the box I shook it sniffed Said Mike and Ike is it fruit He inquired not exactly well I think I shall have an apple wait You haven’t paid oh My money nowadays is no money he pushed Outside we walked across the ice To the intersection he made to go across Wait you can’t go across we have to wait For help oh help he said crouching Until our hands touched the cold ground He said I said we said we see With our hands I jumped up and said you’re the man