Not in This One
This is a lot of nonsense. I didn’t write anything very good, and I didn’t want to separate it into different poems because it all fit together so well into the whole “I can’t think or write today” theme. So this is my free association. Consider it a deep insight into the magical creative process, dissect it, and discover great wonders. Or consider it somebody’s brain vomit, and know that you deserve better.
These thumbs
These fingers
These hands
These arms
These shoulders
This torso
These thighs
Knees
Shins
Feet
Toes.
All are mine.
All work well.
All are obedient
I keep them clean.
I exercise them
But today I still feel gross.
Whatta belly.
What an ass.
What thighs.
Nobody will want to look at me
If my belly sticks out this far.
It doesn’t matter
How bright my smile
(My teeth are rotting anyway)
Or how loving my eyes
(Bad vision, asymmetry, burgeoning body tag on eyelid)
Even my glorious red hair
(Knotty, rough, frizzy, not forever)
And my white nails
(Thin, prone to tearing)
Although my hands give me the ability to write, draw, cook,
I am all thumbs today.
I hate myself.
No I don’t.
I love myself.
Eh, mostly.
I do my damnedest either way.
Neutral
I was only
Neutral
Today.
I lived in beige.
An open door
Through which everything passed.
Nothing but net.
I fed the cats.
I worked.
I cooked oatmeal.
I fed the cats.
I washed dishes.
I worked.
I cooked soup.
I washed dishes.
I worked.
I cooked pudding.
I fed the cats.
We ate soup.
I washed dishes.
I napped.
I watched TV.
I tried to read
But nothing got to me.
We ate pudding.
I tried to read.
I ate scraps.
I fed the cats.
I showered.
I went to bed.
I was able to do everything I was supposed to do
Because I just
Wasn’t
There.
Hey, it’s Harold’s herald!
Behold! Harold cometh!
Harold! We knew you were coming. Your herald was here.
Where did my herald go?
He probably went to the next place you plan to go.
I’d like to meet him myself, but that guy’s always one step ahead of me.
Wish I had a herald.
I need a house crier.
What’s that?
Like a town crier, but just for house stuff. He’ll get through to my deaf husband.
Take him to the monastery, he can be a friar crier.
If the monks decide to market homemade onion rings, he can be the friar’s fryer crier.
And if a friar dyes the fryer, the crier can tell everyone who did it, and be a friar fryer dyer crier.
Boy am I on point tonight.
The deer
Tall
Antlers like icicles
Legs like drumsticks
Eyes like bocce balls
Wings like no one else
Flies lightly
Into the sky
On his skateboard.
Don’t get hit by his eggs.
How much is a face hugger worth?
A partillion?
A zoodlequad perhaps? Maybe even twoodlequads?
I’ll buy a facehugger one day. I will, wait and see. I’ll keep it in a cage and feed it faces every six thousand years, and I’ll love it and squeeze it and call it George.
I am utterly blank inside.
My brain is a vacuum
My eyes are marbles.
My skin is pale, insipid, dull
I smell like strawberry shampoo
I look like a wad.
I feel like…
Like an emptiness.
Nothing matters.
I don’t mind.
Maybe if I go to WordPress
I’ll read something beautiful
Have a feeling
Get a sense of human connection.
…
It won’t load.
The page too
Is blank.
Well fuck me.
Come along darling.
We’ll be late for the nothing.
Don’t dawdle.
When we get there we’ll have ice chips
And mothballs.
We can dance the tarantella
The quiet unmoving one.
And then we’ll hold hands
And wait to see
Who breathes first.
It’s not here.
It’s not anywhere.
It’s not in the soup.
It’s not in the couch.
The blankets are too hot.
The cats are too obedient.
It might be in the licorice pudding
I’ll look…. no, nope, not there
The pudding was flavorful
But too thick.
It’s not in the malted milk
It’s not in the boyfriend for sure
I got him sick and he’s down for the count.
It’s not in the shower
It’s not in the bed
And it’s sure as hell not
In this poem.
Sarah D. Silvey 