Substack Carnival

finding my feet has never been for me

Photo by Adolfo Félix on Unsplash

On Substack we write for no one
I write for someone

On Substack readers are fleeting
Writers are bleating for the crowds to come gawp
in notes we shout
like carnival barkers
”Poems! Come and get your hot poems!”

My poems don’t smell like warm sweet nuts unfortunately
they smell of quiet despair and fusty attics
They smell of grandma’s cloying perfume, grandpa’s liquorice pipe
They seep and weep and no one cares

They crust over with dust so I pretend not to care
sometimes I tuck them back where they belong in the dark

It’s ok I have other carnival side shows to offer
I just need to price the tickets for optimal sales
for the shmucks stupid or kind enough to come in
Can someone pass me my dandy suit and can
they find me some tap dance shoes
There are eyeballs to razzle dazzle I keep hearing

My grandma I never met was a carnival showgirl
true story
So I try to dig into the bones of my hope chest in the attic I never went into
to figure me out
Is she why I acted on stage, memorized lines for claps?
Or do the same online with words and promises I never keep

She was from Tennessee and thus am I on some level
But I float from sea to shining sea untethered
My hair whispers I don’t belong here or anywhere
a family tree unformed

So what does it matter who sees or doesn’t see
I am here, twirling my skirt
because it pleases me.