Net Worth, Sore Tits, Toilet Water

Net Worth, Sore Tits, Toilet Water

NET WORTH

Everything I make is technically

A gross domestic product

Limp amends

Future offspring

Spittling and shitting

In swaddling clothes

I dream and the earth trembles

I don’t recall falling asleep

I snooze through sequenced alarms

Their mounting urgency

And my tepid response

Moving in apposition

 I form a committee about

 My lack of control

 Once a week

 We meet in the produce aisle

 Of the free market

 Where freedom is not

 Salivating over citrus

 We register competition

 And if I am turned on

 By someone’s invisible hand

 Each climax adds a minute to my life

 Another minute to be occupied

 As I always ought to appear



SORE TITS

What makes me touch

Each fabric in a row of dresses

As I grasp the concept of an enemy

How it is like nursing an asp

With its little circular mouth

Ringing around the threat

You give what you get

It’s a pose I’ll entertain

A mediocre indulgence

Like supermarket sushi

As you digitize altars

Devoted to your symmetry

The televisual drama

Veers gothic and off-format

Peeling foil off a stale fact

Klieg lights of recognition

Skate across the substance

Of my boutique concerns

And sympathetic notions

Which mattressed me too long



TOILET WATER 

I want to say something about

The obdurate slowness of a day

With nothing at stake

When time slips into something more comfortable

When I weigh the austerity of a bank

Against the unknowable capacity of the future

The circumstances that can land a person

In a shallow grave on the Jersey Shore

Beyond the pale but above the fold

A moment of silence

For a craving for justice

There’s nothing I can do besides

Put my cat on a diet

Prepare the trophy cabinet for its strange signifiers

Plot against the advances of a preordained wrinkle

I’ve made zero effort to monetize my wellness

However temporary

Preferring instead to challenge my organs

A kind of jeopardy played to a lullaby

Lottery numbers drawn from fortune cookies

Being alive is a biohazard

Still I nurture an impulse to nurture

It’s more autobiography than analysis

But I accept the moon’s critique of the sun

And I’m a quick study

I can resemble a mirror in the dark

It’s midnight in America

There’s nothing that can’t be bottled and sold

A fragrance line aiming to capture

The scent of a coupon stuffed mailbox

The fate of the African elephant

Humanity’s long trick candle wick

Toiling to stay lit



Sarah Jean Grimm is the author  Soft Focus  (Metatron, 2017). Recent writing has appeared in New York Tyrant, Electric Literature, BOMB Magazine, and elsewhere. She lives in New York City.

Sarah Jean Grimm is the author Soft Focus (Metatron, 2017). Recent writing has appeared in New York Tyrant, Electric Literature, BOMB Magazine, and elsewhere. She lives in New York City.




Giggles

Giggles

The New Rules

The New Rules