Nothing to Say

Having nothing to say is my new religion. I decided this while in the shower. I imagined writing a poem that began and ended "I have nothing to say." I rinsed the dandruff shampoo from my hair.

All's well that ends, as they say, including thought.

When I write a poem I attempt to crack beauty's mirror, only to remember that attempting (or trying) is the meaning of "essay," a fact that essayists like to weaponize in their attempt to expand upon nothing. But saying nothing should not be weaponized.

The story starts when it begins and ends when an ending arrives. Everything between holds hands. When I say that "having nothing to say is my new religion," I mean that I have lost my voice's whetstone. I think I left it somewhere in time's microwave.

I want so badly to say nothing that it becomes sin. In this, I have failed to live up to scripture.

Silence is instinct. The coyote stays hidden from the sun. The bat sees nothing but must click its tongue to locate its meal. Having nothing to say is different from not knowing what to say, but these religions share bread and juice. They impale the sun on a mutual spit and roast it in the absence of language. Every orbit simultaneously sets the limits of being.

I have said nothing new, if I've said anything at all. Welcome to my blog.