Train RideBecca Klaver
She said she'd lost interest in the personal—no it wasn't that— she'd lost interest in anything the personality wanted to do? And yet early, all those names and now these voices. She said, "I like reading from this. It's like, what I like to do." I try to imagine wiping the scum off a life with my fingertips as on a bus window, saying, "Oh these old words? They're like what I like to do," brushing them off the end of the endtable like crumbs, like I was born to do it then christened to do it again. We can't go anywhere to do this life like we want to do it (open field, blank mind, wind hurrying through) except perhaps very far north or very far south but I don't like to be foreign either. I like to be familiar. "It's boring to outlaw words." Maybe I need roots dangling from my hips in search of freshwater or oil. Oh what is a poet in Chicago, IL on the ninth of April in the year 2008? And if I have something interesting to say, whom shall I say it to?
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