The past’s rage as the break approaches. Because of my gender I was playing the role of material life. I guess I wanted a way into myself. New shoes and new eyes. Ladies and gentlemen please be patient. IT’S NOT A CRISIS IT’S A SCAM. Could hear the train coming through the sound of crickets. I wanted to love you like a light slowly illuminating from underneath. Because having a body means doubting. All the tapping feet. Suddenly in the diner an entire ocean. Little liver that could. Lying on the floor breathing deeply. What I mean is. Is everybody comfortable. Something made me speak as though I were sure. How long is it permissible to grieve a lost love and when did he return to himself. Hearing the pitch of movement slowly rise. How darkness presses down above the well-lit station. I need to find my own card she said plaintively. What it means to survive. Is anybody hearing this. There were people everywhere willing to speak to and of power. High speed lights from the south. How a revolution once meant something cyclical. Your aphorisms read twice. Breathing into the knot of pain. So many choices with negligible difference between them. This is called a market. The thinking part and the stuff part combine to make a person. You carry the notebook. You keep showing up. Expired referral. Wind in your ears. All the poets on the blog trying to say what love is. A hand held to keep you upright. Sand all over the sidewalk. They are singing in the stopped train’s car. The moon waxes and wanes. You knew in writing before you knew in speech.
M C Hyland
1 February 2016