Hope pervades in all things. There is hope that things will work out the way we want, hope that things will be different. There is hope in the satiating of addiction and hope that the cravings will end.
Sometime overnight a black van parked on the side of the road outside of work.
With the hood up they stumble in and out of the side door. A vacuum of silence howling from within. They sit in the front seats under phone glow and frosted windows.
Before the morning’s light a man scrambles under and around the front bumper, back and forth, then back into the van. A battery charger lies on the ground under the van. Inside the cab of the van a lighter flickers.
In a few days time you’ll show up for work and the van is gone, in its place scattered needles and trash. Off to continue the search.
—If hope is an ever available commodity, why then is it so valued?
I only want to write on an empty stomach, so to feel the urgency of hunger. I will sit with only five minutes left on the clock and write ceaselessly to see what it is that’s important to me. To know the pains clearly. To feel the heart beating.
I woke up this morning to a wrinkled face in the sheets staring back at me, mouth open in sleep. I thought maybe it is the sheets memory of you, and this its performing art. Or is it my performing art and the sheet my stage? I like the way you look when you’re sleeping, because I know you won’t be asking me for something, at least not anything that I’m not already willing to give. If I try to whisper into your ear, or where your ear should be, would the words animate the bedspread, get it to do a little jig? at least that’s what comes to mind in this morning reverie. I haven’t gone outside yet, but I know its likely to be peppermint and whiskers. Like in a dream that’s a memory of a dream, I slide further into the covers and wonder at what it might be like to stay in bed all day. Blanketed by crow haws and blind-filtered light, and the answer comes by the way of cramps and a runny nose. And I sneeze and the sheet- face is covered in snot and spit and now it really starts to get real, I’ve got to jump out of bed, otherwise the day, like this poem, would have no point.