A Whole Lot of Nothing

I write a whole lot of nothing. The world is full of rage and I am no different than them--feining

for anger like dogs to bones, embarrassing myself as I roll over to rage, panting from the heat of

the fire that blasts through my window as a sunburst reminds me that my voice is selfish and, at

times, tone deaf--a high frequency whistle that nobody but I can hear.

Metaphor spits from my mouth like waterfalls of maggots and I sing and sing and sing about I

and I and I. I steal, I gasp, I cry and scream for a plate of scraps because I think that is what I am

getting anyway but I know that I could get myself more--and knowing is all the difference.

I feel nauseous and taste vomit at the back of my throat when I am desperate to be clean, to be

sun, to be healing ancient fire of rabbit’s foot and clawing monkey paw. My drunken state is

passing out and falling and falling through mattress and walking on cold wooden floor to a tiny

bathroom with a sliding door, holding my own hair back when I can’t feel my forehead.

Banging back against the wall, digging nails into my forearms to stop hyperventilation--I have

nothing here but everything, I have nothing that I want but my many attachments, I am

indecisive and sad and discontent with my contentment at this very natural, normal life that I live

and I am angry still. I am conundrum storm of question and answer for everything and hidden

meaning of life.

My mouth is the void of hungry chairs and couches, of stars, of planets stolen by big hands in the

sky, of dead musicians and living ones I have kidnapped with my tongue. It speaks what I say

and everything else--sometimes never anything at all, speaking with a cadence like heartbeat,

drummer, fruit bite, birthday, blackjack, complex cancer cookies invite coffee covered

coupons--recipes for disaster.

I’m asking for a sedative. For The Shins. Damned to be one of us, girl. Dare to be one of us, girl.

For MJ Lenderman. I wish my houseboat was docked at the Himbo Dome. I am the age of all the

girls they write songs about. I am frantic and searching and always underlyingly upset. My

words are words of bite and teeth, of faux fur and screech.

I write a whole lot of nothing. I am nonsensical and almost making a point and you might think

you understand but you will never be sure and even I do not know what I have bled.

Carly Cantor ‘27

I made this piece for an exercise based on "Prose In A Small Space" by Rita Dove. My goal was to write something that sounded like it was saying something profound but was really saying nothing at all--like you could almost understand what it was saying but you were probably wrong. I took some musical inspiration from Australia by The Shins and Wristwatch by MJ Lenderman as well, incorporating some of the lyrics and concepts into the piece.