Hard to write,
difficult to feel..
Every emotion,
every phase..
Turning a new page.
Each one with a new beginning,
a different end,
interesting feelings..
I've been flipping through pages,
one,
or more per day.
My mind starting to fray..
Staring off,
my mind sometimes blank..
Not knowing,
not feelings,
emotions stored away..
My thoughts jumbled,
my subconscious not knowing how to feel.
Here physically,
mentally I'm away..
Away into the past,
away figuring out the future.
Convincing,
and pleading,
telling my mind I'm okay..
But my heart knows,
as long as he's present,
things will never be the same..
Emotions always at play..
Robin Ouzman Hislop's poetry is certainly in dialogue with some of the key architects of the 'poetics of indeterminacy' – both the Modernist strands represented by the likes of Beckett and Stein, and the postmodernist strands represented, initially,
Using Calgary as a backdrop the author satirizes the self-serving nature of the public as it continues to fatten itself, not only physically, but egotistically as well.
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