Friday, October 13, 2000

NOTHING HAPPENED


NOTHING HAPPENED
         —after Karen Finley

So I dared myself to open the car door 
and just lean out as we hugged the cliff
and nothing happened.
So I gave up everything for coffee and beer 
and nothing happened
except I was skinny, wired and a lightweight drunk. 
Drugs lost their thrill.
I cooked lavish meals and watched him eat 
and nothing happened.
So I took up eating meat 
and nothing happened 
except my stomach ached
and I dreamed of falling off cliffs, 
or fell in love with strangers, 
while reading Naked Lunch.
My clothes grew into tents, 
I thought about joining the circus.
One day my skin turned blue 
and I couldn’t eat a thing
except soda crackers 
and nothing happened. 
Beer and coffee lost their thrill.
I was cold, so I opened a Corona 
and crawled in the tub
until I was lobster-red and I thought 
about how veins were like highways.
In a traveling mood, I went north 
and put Christmas ornaments 
on the tomato vines to keep the frost back
and took to staying out late (while he worked nights)
and nothing happened.
I thought about how my veins were like highways. 
Wishing I was Kerouac on the road, 
I tried out homelessness before it was fashionable.
I slept on people’s couches 
and in the back seat of my VW Bug 
in Safeway parking lots
and nothing happened 
except that I felt kinda funny 
whenever I was in a real bed.
I stepped out dressed to the nines
and no one was ever the wiser.
So, I flushed the fetus, damn near bled to death 
and still nothing happened.
and I took to poetry and cross-dressing 
like a retro 40s movie star
with stiletto heels and carmine claws 
while everyone else was discovering
the navel of their earth mother selves
and they all moved to the country 
but I’d already been there, done that,
and nothing happened 
except that I decided to 
rewrite life again.
A lotta good that did.

10/13/2000



Justin Chinn, Creatiive Writing 605-01    
Writing Assignment


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