Welcome to the Land of No-poetry.
If I succeed in writing this poem
No one will understand me.
It will be like talking backwards.
It will be like autism.
There is no music here,
Except what you buy.
The weather is predictable.
Frogs are two-headed or one-legged
But it doesn’t mean anything.
Up means up, down means down.
Everything makes bitter sense, but what is bitter?
We don’t know anything about that.
Oh, and what is across the street
Has always been across the street.
Where ever you want to go
There is a sidewalk. . .
You have been here forever,
I have been here forever. . .I think. . .
Everything is recycled if it has a 1, 2, 5 or 6.
The glass and the plastic and the metal
And the dead all go in the same bin.
Everyone has a headache
That will respond to the latest pain-killer.
Everyone’s tongue needs brushing.
People here either know each other or pretend to,
Or pretend not to.
They eat dead animals.
They control their thoughts,
Or pretend to
Or pretend not to.
They can’t remember the smell of the ocean.
They deny the taste of each other.
Everyone smells the same,
Or differently the same.
In the Land of No-poetry
The greatest complement is:
“You haven’t changed a bit.”
In the Land of No-poetry,
Nobody knows their real age.
There are few rules.
People know they have to wear
Shirts and shoes.
(Nobody walks around barefoot here
Because, of course,
Your foot comes off with your shoe.)
Many of the signs are blank;
Everyone knows what to do.
You can leave the Land of No-poetry
But you will be back because
It’s pretty nice here.
Nobody will notice you are gone
Or even that you were gone,
Unless you remind them, like:
“Boy, that was a fun vacation!”
The water here smells of chlorine
So everyone knows it’s safe.
The children have plenty to eat;
Their mouths are orange or blue.
They do drugs
But it doesn’t teach them anything.
In the Land of No-poetry
Life does not teach.
Nothing means very much.
If you write poetry you will soon be gone
But we won’t miss you.
Stay away as long as you like
But don’t forget to let us know
When you return,
So we can ask you about your vacation.
GARY LINDORFF, TCBH!’s resident poet, is an artist, musician, poet and counselor / dream-worker who practices shamanic techniques, and who lives in rural Vermont with his wife Shirley and two dogs. He can be reached at maleotter@gmail.com