MC Hyland

The End

I get a haircut to mark my dissent. Made a white room breathe audibly. A white phone in my white hand camera rolling at the first sign of trouble. Floor pieced together from large slabs of plywood. Like stepping right from the stairs to the train. Little snows accumulate. Because you were given a set of choices. A room filled with boredom and chill air. Buoyed by tiny lucks. Who came back bearing greenery. Who made it out in the brief ceasefire. To build a face from the materials of history. I wrote in the hope that the bitterness of the final years could be allayed or staved. Because now our job is to protect each other. Not to lean against the decorative features. Smell of pine expands through the apartment. Waiting for the first explosion. If you don’t receive money you may call your labor unalienated. Little ice shattered by the curb. Sent the students out into the city. Piled into a taxi in a luxurious afternoon. What conditions end quickly like a curtain dropping. I urgently needed not to pass. Or a hobby like skiing. Before I came here poetry was a thinly dispersed ecosystem of friends. Living in and for meatspace. Resting the heavy bag for just a moment on the stair.

The End

A man sleeps on the station floor in loving embrace with a pit bull. Tree lights fade brighten and blink. I wanted you to channel some sobriety through our held hands. We called this going home. Unmade by uncertainty and the theatrical rollout of the new order. I consider a muskrat skull as a gift to my love. On the screen the beautiful suit of the assassin. Capital sleeps like a shark. A boy swinging in the aisle like a trapeze artist. Who lit a candle for the electors. White walls. Circulating all night through our bodies. Honey-light on evening faces. All the cars along the avenue gritted in winter silt. How to unmake the singularities of our personal narratives so biography better resembles weather. Pleasure becomes a responsibility. New survival techniques fly south. The way each tree branch swings and invisibly tugs its fellows. The year slipping along its rails. Who found a space in the mouth for a new kind of laughter. Breaths. Swedish pancakes and Amish commemorative trivets. Endless western sky remade my face. I believed I could lie curled inside the giant disco ball. Simply waiting for the idea to appear. How to love you without fulfilling your desires. We did not file a police report because we do not trust the police. This was an affective prehistory of the crisis. Make it a trespass artist. To lie down inside the rhythm of your sleeping breath.

The End

Prepare another pot of tea and look up medical gifs on your phone. Little glints of light from LA MEXICANA GROCERY. Sadness registers as a lag in the machinery. Some blackened leaves just hang there. How does sound echo through your interior spaces. My life of waterways. Sang I Know Where I’m Going into the empty train station. Jerky motion of time within the institution. Morning milks over into a colorless sky. Hello to the handsome young man in his blue apron. Blue light over the PIONEERS AND SOLDIERS CEMETERY. One dress immune to the power of the tumble dryer. Advanced into every day. Into the room filled with her curiously inflected speech. I too dislike these coastal elites. A dense gray cloud hovers on the mountain. To maintain belief in the face of Texas. To date a city through its real estate page. The sky turns briefly and improbably blue. I meant we were a kind of weather or a kind of time. You asked for a bathrobe and were given the bathrobe of your dead father. Black spines of books build a black block in vision. Fibers buried in the nail polish. Each node in the system to generate and pass through a series of emails. Sweat it out on the couch. All the moving prospect of the city lined up for you in the waning light.

The End

All bodies leak. Planes arc overhead while history seems to plunge. As though easy journey from his deathbed were possible. Meanwhile the rain picks up. The canal turns left near a circular structure and carries you along the path. A lack of physical discipline means suffering continues mostly unameliorated. What next generation. On the wall a woman holds a large white lotus and a machine gun. Blood in the nose persists. The shape of each finger describable as a tightly packed spiral. Mostly I have become a series of gestures. The studio disarticulated and moved a hundred feet north. Three steps to the right as you turn the crank. I begin to understand the early decades of adulthood as a time of relative continence. Leaving a small pen mark on the microfiber of the couch. One physiotherapist is a dancer while the other lifts weights. The way a body might sex or become sexed. The weight of a body tending towards the earth. In Becca’s apartment I pick up a sponge and begin to wash the cabinets. Slowly rising and falling with a wobbling motion within a landscape of barges and cargo trains. Up the elevator and down the stairs. Imagined a film of dead cells clinging to the bedsheets. Not to seek for conditions. The step between providing a body to swell the march and arming for revolution. Sore blocked pore in the spot where the glasses rest. If the production of expression is a simply economic imperative. Still I assumed no postures before sunrise.

The End

We learn from Congress that the revolution begins after midnight. See something and keep your fool mouth shut. Like desire for a sea. A couple embraces at the crosswalk’s verge. Against sunset. What I mean is uninterrupted. Let us say that we live in bodies and that these bodies live in time. On the bridge a blue and a red light blink and blink. Imagine a room that has perfect scale. Institutions you believe in or simply believe. Marvelous birds. Because joy arrives with a political undertow. Call it an outskirt. Glitter nail polish peeling up in a sheet. How music builds a continuous present into which a thought might drop. Wifed down in sorrow. Having become a granulation in distant weathers. The present a tense before it was a time. Let us take this sentence’s rhythm as prophylactic. Here in the future texting back to a world that came before.

The End

What does love have to do with nations. We walk to the platform’s other end for something to do. Drops on a window. Wrote WITHHOLD CONSENT on corrugated cardboard. Made a notch with a fingernail for each protection. To keep refusing the seat. Whistles from the school same as always. Where contingency appears. A stranger pulled me close while protest filled the laundromat screen. Some people live like pharaohs in their country. What the Coalition called MONOLINGUAL BITCHES. What does love have to do with partnership. A brass band at the park’s edge. Worker slowdown forms a little cloud of hope. Empty vodka bottle. Drunken kisses linger in the coat. A new round of alternative twitter accounts. Count down blocks to the place we once lived. Every day opens into logical fallacy. Same tile in the foyer. Single albino pigeon in the flock. The administrators commit to waiting out dissent. This is the loneliness of syntax. What does love have to do with history. Mail your mind two years into the future. Black heart emoji. Composed a slate of new national holidays. Looking down on bare trees. I gently put my finger in a hole worn through the wrist.

MC Hyland is a PhD candidate in English Literature at New York University, and holds MFAs in Poetry and Book Arts from the University of Alabama. From her research, she produces scholarly and poetic texts, artists’ books, and public art projects. She is the founding editor of DoubleCross Press, a poetry micropress, as well as the author of several poetry chapbooks and the poetry collection Neveragainland (Lowbrow Press, 2010).
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About Posit Editor

Susan Lewis (susanlewis.net) is the editor of Posit (positjournal.com) and the author of ten books and chapbooks, including Zoom, winner of the 2017 Washington Prize, Heisenberg's Salon, This Visit, and State of the Union. Her poetry has appeared in such places as The Awl, Berkeley Poetry Review, Boston Review, The Brooklyn Rail, Cimarron, Gargoyle, The Journal, New American Writing, The New Orleans Review, Prelude, Raritan, Seneca Review, So to Speak, Verse, Verse Daily, and VOLT.

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