Anyhow I Can’t Explain It

​Half of me
hypothesizes how it would be
to lose myself completely.
Though the me that I am
on Tuesdays,
on school days,
says that’s silly,
impossible.
It can’t be done.
It’s funny how
I’m more than one person.

That’s why I create characters,
craft stories about them,
make my made-up minions
do things for me,
and call myself a writer.
It’s ridiculous really.

I support a thematic thesis,
sell my stories
as first-heard. As if
there is anything original
in this world,
as if there is something more
to say when
it all means
um,
nada.

But even if it doesn’t count
for concept,
I still have so much time
to do what I want.

And I do want
to mud around,
get messy,
regardless of the pesky
best-dressy nonsense we glow by.
No one goes so same complicated
roof-mitigated jabber.
I want junk, the eccentric nodding heads,
but instead we thread widespread
civilized high fives.

Even at the movie theater,
the guy serving popcorn
still wants his own something.
He’s a skinny marvel superhero-faced
man, hunchbacked,
wearing a purple t-shirt.
Even from under the blooming muscles
beneath the sleeve-tongues,
he craves something more.

We all crave something more,
not just buttered popcorn,
and end up haunted
for free.
You don’t even have to pay
for shipping.
Demons for zero dollars
delivered straight to your door.
Ding dong.
Roar.

You’re terrified again,
Passion fruit style
makes you want to etch it into benches.
Vandalism is illegal,
that’s why we do it dear.

Admit you haven’t figured it out,
besides the small things:
floss your teeth,
eat a healthy breakfast,
maybe include a banana.
It’s your extraneous way of saying
order is happening here.
Look! Look! Spotless.
Just how it’s supposed to be.
Look at me.
I keep my room clean.

Maybe the pain will leave with my
clothes
if I fold them away neatly.
But those two aren’t synonymous.
Stop tricking yourself,
pretending people are put together.

We are potential only.
We have Chinese dinners,
or get wet red chest fever and stay home,
or date pretty girls too different from you to last,
or ice skate, run, bike ride, note-take, observe the humans,
call it art or something else ostentatious.
Fool yourself into thinking you’ve
figured it out.

I’m afraid I will never
figure it out.
Or what if there is nothing
to get?
This is just
it.

No perennial joy ride.
No cosmic light as release.
Just whatever
disgusting body vomit that’s hacking
it’s way through your skeleton now.
Just whatever is in this moment.
Even if this moment
isn’t lightbulb-worthy.

The more you’re not doing
the only thing worth moving for,
and that’s love,
that’s sacred sort of,
the more you’re breaking
a truce between two baffling oddities.
It’s a handshake that insists
you seek the reason
why you’re here.

And that exact is why you’re here:
for the sake of the search.

Find your own illegal symmetry
they all seem to disagree with.

Anyhow I can’t explain it.
shoot me an email
​if you think you can.

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​Miriam is a Literati Fellow with Get Lit – Words Ignite.
Check out more about Get Lit HERE and ​read more about Miriam in Simon & Schuster’s Get Lit Rising, available for pre-order HERE!

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