Table of Contents

 

2 POEMS

Patty Nash

 

TWO VERSIONS OF THE SAME THING

Even back then the weather was weird, she was saying, and the zeppelin, which had somehow made it to the village, dangled three hours above it, and when the sky went chartreuse (coterminous with a temperature change) it slurped it up like milk or root beer in a twisty straw at the pizza parlor, until it floated away and into the forest, where light snowfall weighed it down and its passengers (journalists and illustrious people who had come from far to admire the construction of the newfound aerial device) parlayed out with ropes from the trees the zeppelin had settled on. Nobody died. There is a placarded rock in the forest commemorating this mishap, this was before zeppelins connoted warcraft, there was ambient and genuine excitement surrounding the prospect of humans floating in the sky in ovaline and inflated devices, not relegated to baskets, walking around between tables like bipedal rocks. Today they only exist in the abstract. There's a silver zeppelin sticking out of the ex-Riesling bottle on the birch commode that siphons my sleeping area from where I hang my damp clothes. It was from this art exhibit I was in, I needed a trinket for the road, to prove I was there. Alternate thing in the exhibit: entrails. Sometimes, my clothes are so crumbly, I'm too lazy to shake them out, Johannes goes crazy at that. The polkadotted ironing board behind them just gathers damp, it's ovaline, like the zeppelin. Did I mention I was in the bathtub? Yes, she was telling me all this when there was mystifying splashing in the background, mystifying for her at least. At this point she cuts me off and goes on a jog. It's so important to get exercise these days, move around

 

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UPDATES

There's a spoiled parsnip in my tall glass of water. There's a polygonal jade thing under my breakfast table. There's a breakfast table under my breakfast table. The breakfast table is the kind you eat in bed with. Don't sleep where you eat. Don't eat after 7. [Firstname], have you seen this yet? Today, the trash was so full they put another trash beside it, and then a bunch of paint cans beside that. Is that a mosaic? I traipsed along it, if that is indeed what it was. I hopped over the cans' titles, which buckled, terrifyingly, briefly, under my weight. When I removed the courtyard, two young women were coming my way. They asked if they could pray for me. I said sure, but not with me there. That's weird. There are billions of people in the world whose lives are so much worse in ways too large and too small to pick out. I live in a wealthy country and that wealth comes from somewhere, you know? And besides, that story you told me? With the person, whose leg was healed by the power of prayer? What about all the legs that weren't? If god is real, explain X. We are all born with free will, explained E__. I was raised in a very religious home, explained R____. E__ looked at R____. R____looked at me. I looked at E__. R____ looked at E__. I looked at R____, who looked at E__. The Lord looked at us (said E__). He was working – albeit in mysterious ways. That's what I told my boss when she didn't ask what I did all day. I both believed and didn't in prayer. At least not their kind of it. They didn't grasp the contradiction in this, but I sure did, like a pink silly putty. They said He had brought them directly to me. And what was my name? Ah, Patty. I said goodbye and walked to the park and called Grace, in Kansas, who knew it was me before she picked up the phone. But that's not special. I'm just the only one she uses WhatsApp with. I crossed time and space to tell her the following:

 

 

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My poems are a place for me to articulate belief and disbelief, two feelings I am always feeling at the same time.