Supple Towel Cuddle

Post Poetry-War Era Poetry

This poem's a lot like that picture of the guy in an indy car going "buddahDIIIINGGGdinggdingggdingggdinggg" over and over in an increasingly excited chipmunk voice. It was pretty popular in the early 2000's, sorry if you missed it. Anyway. At first i'm just like what the fuck this picture isn't funny. And then I just sit there and stare at it, cause the page tells you to look at it and keep a straight face for as long as you physically are able. And soon you realize it's the most important thing you've experienced all day, and you're laughing maniacally in celebration of it. I mean... it's a guy, in this race car, making racing noises in a chipmunk voice. It's a briefly-stated brilliance.

Anyfuck, far be it from me to toot my own horn, but this lady came into my english class last semester as like a visiting author or something. And right off the bat she goes: "Write a poem. You have five minutes. We're reading them aloud." For the first four minutes I pretty much just sat there unblinking, unnecessarily stressed out over this surprise trapdoor into writer's block. But then, mid-descent, I caught hold of this strange-ass idea like a vine on the wall of a well, and clambered back up to solid ground. I almost can't take credit for this poem, because it was a strange and alien Dana that wrote it, a very cornered and primal Dana. And since it's nearly not mine, I feel secure being humbly enamored of it. I've reformatted it, since when I wrote it the first time it was just a big block paragraph with lots of hastily scratched out ideas and arrows saying "this sentence belongs up here, instead."

If you don't get it at first, if you're going "what the fuck, this is just simple and dumb," then keep staring at it. Keep a straight face as long as you can. If at last you laugh, then you are insane. And we should hang out.

EGGSHELLS

Some days ago,
One of the others was thinking out loud.

And,
Though a few fellows away,
I couldn’t help but hear him through the stillness.

He spoke
Of something which preceded us.
Made us, even.
(Many eggshells believed him, I think, for lack of much else to do.)
He was just beginning to theorize that
“We
Each
Have
Something
In us,
Far greater than we know,
Dormant,
With its roots in our creator,”
When he was taken mid-sentence.

Some cried out,
But the taker, inattentive,
Muted our alarm beneath the lid.

Questions arose:
Are there others like us? And
Are we all going to die? And
How could our creator let this happen to us? But
The carton quickly quieted.

(Eventually it was just one other and me.)

They took us together.
Breakfast was served.

-Towel

Posted by suppletowelcuddle at January 2, 2008 1:29 AM