I’ve been a miner for a
heart of cardiac muscle.
The love songs I write are about charcoal and sulfur,
the difference between temperature and energy.
Static is a kind of energy, and it’s the glitchy
houndstooth we see on tv screens when channels
don’t exist. They say one percent of tv static
is from the Big Bang—the ultimate in making
the most of what you’ve got—
The love songs I write are about charcoal and sulfur,
the difference between temperature and energy.
Static is a kind of energy, and it’s the glitchy
houndstooth we see on tv screens when channels
don’t exist. They say one percent of tv static
is from the Big Bang—the ultimate in making
the most of what you’ve got—
The Big Bang is more
popular than the
Steady State Theory. I think I believe
in the Big Bang and I believe the Bible is real
insofar as the letters on the cover are embossed
in gold and the words of Jesus are printed in red
and there are four accounts of the same events.
Steady State Theory. I think I believe
in the Big Bang and I believe the Bible is real
insofar as the letters on the cover are embossed
in gold and the words of Jesus are printed in red
and there are four accounts of the same events.
Static is another word for
standing still,
and how many times have I done that?
Panning for minerals at the adventure park,
I held my tray in the water and sieved
shards too small to identify. Static is another word
for standing still, but I get motion sickness,
and there’s a theory that happens because our
bodies are always swaying, even if just a little bit.
My body sways a lot. I twitch. I have longed
to be a living statue in the French Quarter,
have hidden by the park at Jackson Square
where they put on their costumes
and paint their faces. I’d wear a wig of silver ringlets
and stand on a crate, blinking to acknowledge each dollar.
I’d have a silver pail of real crabapples right there at my feet.
But I can’t because of the twitch,
the tremble, the shudder. I’ll never stand still.
And yet.
and how many times have I done that?
Panning for minerals at the adventure park,
I held my tray in the water and sieved
shards too small to identify. Static is another word
for standing still, but I get motion sickness,
and there’s a theory that happens because our
bodies are always swaying, even if just a little bit.
My body sways a lot. I twitch. I have longed
to be a living statue in the French Quarter,
have hidden by the park at Jackson Square
where they put on their costumes
and paint their faces. I’d wear a wig of silver ringlets
and stand on a crate, blinking to acknowledge each dollar.
I’d have a silver pail of real crabapples right there at my feet.
But I can’t because of the twitch,
the tremble, the shudder. I’ll never stand still.
And yet.
Erin Lyndal Martin is a creative writer, music journalist, and visual artist. Her poems
have appeared in Gulf Coast, Gigantic Sequins, Cosmonauts Avenue, Rhino,
and others. Find her at http://www.erinlyndalmartin.com or @erinlyndal.
the Tuesday poem is
curated by rob mclennan
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