M C Hyland!

THE END

Good morning bacon smell from the kitchen.

Sky through a boarded-up garage roof.

Arendt asks where you go when you think.

Humming I’ve got a tiger back at home.

How about nine o’clock Thursday.

Typesetting as post-economic labor.

A sonics you might settle into.

No bright line between reading and sleep.

Sirens heading south. Your slouch.

Arrived at the corner as the walk light flicked off.

Leaf smells stronger though the season should be past.

How might you graph his body relative to other bodies.

The plane’s trajectory hard to chart from sound only.

The mystery of the irregular polyhedron.

All the windows cracked.

Triangles of roofs like stage sets.

Finding the space where a sentence will go.

Good morning scrapings and clanks.

Weekly resistance to the same writing task.

Series of rectangular boxes. Maybe a home.

Saying this is my sister’s friend.

Poetry cannot be just an affiliation.

Filtered light through the blue curtains.

Historicity of this body.

Can you read necessity through this work.

Arriving at the subway at the peak of conversation.

The need to make money sometimes invisible.

I lost all my footage when the phone crashed.

The prism disrupting its own light beam.

Barely mediated was what I called it.

The scarf smells like her for years after her death.

Why don’t you buy the book for book club this time.

Walking to metabolize language.

This is not the reason why people make art.

Sound of the digital camera shutter closing.

THE END

It’s lame to keep saying I hate it here.

Sui generis something or other.

Walked around the reservoir unamused.

All the light comes in from the corner.

Try not to fall off your bike.

Coming up against a disciplinary boundary.

It’s time to shut up and get to work.

First potatoes then onions then eggplant.

Flashing off a cell phone screen.

Would we be happier if we drank more.

Edward Said’s penetrating eyes.

Experimented with affectlesness.

The water looked bright and clean from a distance.

Always going over bridges.

I don’t want to use your internet connection.

Another day another line.

Why don’t you say it in Latin.

Narrated the wedding on my Emoji keyboard.

You stayed to watch the lights change slowly.

You spread out your scarf like a blanket.

It cost eighteen dollars plus ten for prosecco.

Then I walked home carrying all of it.

Sometimes you think of a person all the time for no reason.

I was always taping my neckline to my bra.

You’re no special snowflake.

The art market as a means of justification.

Bored but canonical. All the bodily limits.

Suddenly we were the last ones in the restaurant.

As far as the subway will go.

Waited in line to enter the dimly lit room.

Sew your name into your clothes.

Keep adjusting the dosage.

That dress looked better in the panoramic photo.

A black and blue cheek.

Experimenting with the popular.

This isn’t one you’re going to walk off.  

Left the pears and paper at home.

Laid out discursive ground rules.

If a poem is a landmass.

A labor historian bent over company records.

A soothing British causality.

I didn’t want to be part of your movement.

Forehead grease smudge on the subway window.

Astounded by the riches of the gas station.

Small houses. Dark night.

Places where uptown means elevation.

I wasn’t thinking about the other inside.

Incorrect antecedents.

Thermostat as purely palliative.

The season changed without our notice.

Metallic streamers in the Mexican bar.

It’s mostly a problem of bodily leakage.

Dated institutional architecture.

Photoshoot in the courtyard.

Caffeination next to divination.

No future.

THE END

Letter to a now-lost future self.

Why don’t you think about Foucault when you’re fucking.

Crossing the bridge. Recrossing the bridge.

Fan in the window all winter long.

Some kinds of city trees above the neighbor’s roof.

2 Ring Dings a Colt 45 a pregnancy test.

Sky always higher and brighter out the front door.

Bicycle retired for the season.

Later you will learn how to read the poem.

Keep a notebook of walks. Smelling all the leaves.

It’s showtime when you cross the river.

Some historical skies. That ship has sailed. 

A point in history where trauma manifests as event.

New England-y aesthetics of land meeting water.

You will like me less if you know what I’ve been reading.

Problems of sovereignty become problems of affiliation.

The part of the song called a burden.

Basketball game in the street.

What kinds of life does your body conceal.

What if a poem is a cancerous mass.

“Living heiroglyphics” or living ideograms.

A certain lyric compression occurs.

Clanks and hisses of steam heat turning on.

8 hours on the couch with the laptop.

A kind of permeability of the self.

Fountain shaped like a whale’s tail.

A creature is not necessarily a monster.

It’s not supposed to happen like that.