back and forth
And
up and down
And
in and out
And
exhaustion abounds
but today
just forth
just up
just in
(except for some really excellent bagels)
and it’s *starting* to feel like
Home
Month: September 2021
September 29, 2021
“this house must have ghosts”
or maybe it’s just the cat
yawling at a new situation
“this house must have ghosts”
or maybe it’s just the lack of sleep
over subsequent months
of stressing over
attempted break-ins,
the dog’s health,
the prospect of buying a house,
the discomfort of not our own mattress…
“this house must have ghosts”
or maybe…maybe i just really, really want to have ghosts…
so
are they nice ghosts???
September 28, 2021
the very same day
i became a homeowner
in New York City
i portrayed the epitome
of a stereotypical New Yorker
(pizza in hand, honking my car’s horn unnecessarily,
driving in that way that only New Yorkers drive)
(although, if i were a real real New Yorker
i feel like i’d have
neither house
nor car,
so there is that…)
September 27, 2021
today’s the day
the moment of truth
the do or [don’t]
and i certainly hope
it’s all
do.
[especially after this whole weekend of other doings]
September 26, 2021
in the morning
these pages
[these poems]
soothe me,
subdue me,
make me
more pliable
less early-morning-needing-a-strech-stiff-as-fuck,
and if the night has been restless
with less sleep than is ever needed
by me
i can sort through the fog
and become more of a person
(more of a me)
than i was in the deep dark depths of the
strugglenight
it used to be that
taking the glasses off
and sticking the contacts in
my eyes
was my way of waking up,
but recently
it seems
the sudden alertness
has been replaced with
a
slow, steady awareness
of the day
beginning
as i type out
my thoughts
moment by moment
word by word
letter by letter
thought by thought
[with, of course, the gracious assist
of a mug full of cold coffee
to aid as need be]
September 25, 2021
oh no,
forgotten poem
let’s fix that.
~~~
A Peaceful Town Where
NothingEverHappens
the song,
and beat,
strikes chords in my soul,
bopping my head
along the predetermined rhythm
wait wait waiting for the weird interlude
of words,
otherwise wordless,
the songs slip
into
and out of
me
A Peaceful Town Where
NothingEverHappens
~~~
how much of my writing,
these days at least,
is actual
“good”
poetry?
how much of it is getting into the crux of the matter/
brain matter/
how much do i matter?
i want inspiration,
inspiration to squeeze perspiration,
perspiration from my brain stem
where all the cogitation
infiltrates…
but i don’t ever know
if
when i rhyme-scheme like that
is it more me
or less?
am i playing by someone else’s rules?
am i becoming ‘cringe-y’?
although, the concept of awkward
is always from the dominant culture
so why am i so worried
if i want so badly to destroy white supremacy
and stick it to the man
and burn it all down and start something new
better
kinder?
is it because i was raised within the dominant culture?
it’s been embedded in my brain to worry about things
such as
keeping the status quo
all status
all quo?
as much as i try to fight for what’s right,
i definitely get a little fearful
of rocking the boat
too much
…
does that say i don’t actually want to rock the boat at all?
or am i simply aware that i have a lot more internal work to do?
or is the dominant culture simply one of invisible,
undefinable,
imperceptible,
unmeasurable,
strength
that sticks its claws into every fibre of our being
until we are still working for what we so long to work against?
fuck the idea of awkwardness
of status-ing the quo
i have rainbow hair, for goodness sakes,
i crave validation of my “weirdness”
i have rarely tried to dance to anyone’s beat but my own
(i’m just often unaware what my beat actually is…
i hear so many others
and it’s wonderful
and cacophonous
and beautiful music
but i would like to pick out mine
amongst the others
at some point
soon…)
September 24, 2021
with multiple days away
(at least from the real, in the weeds, getting lost in writing,)
morning pages,
i feel like i Should be writing more,
like i Should have a plethora of backup
just waiting to burst forth
onto the page[screen]
but i’m also meandering
like [[yesterday]]
and just kinda typing
for typing’s sake
where did my morning pages go?
September 23, 2021
poem, poem, poem-it-up
gently in the morn
stressity, stressity, stressity stress
don’t get too forlorn
September 22, 2021
getting into the swing of fall
feeling more myself
sweater weather
and
spooky times
and
black cats
and
i hope i can keep this hopeful, fun, spooky feeling
all through the season
(for it really is/can be the most wonderful time of the year…)
September 21, 2021
i feel as though
the month is almost over
(though there is still plenty of plenty of time)
i feel as though
i’m running out of time
(even though
i’m still young
vibrant
virile[?]
alive)
i feel as though
i’m only half living
(even though
i’m more in tune
with being
a living person
than i have
in years)
i feel as though
i’ll never connect
with other human beings
(even though
the humans i want to connect with
align more with cryptid
than anything else)
and i feel like
i’m not allowed to identify as cryptid,
as anything other than man/woman
boy/girl
alive/dead
artist/not
driven/giving up
even though
the world
is filled
with
shades of
neither/and
~~~
maybe
some creepy/Disparition/music
will calm my spooky soul
and make me feel more like myself
~~~
my brain isn’t fully functional
fully awake
and i already feel i have
enough poems for two today
so will i write a third?
[everything in threes]
when the ultimate goal is not, necessarily, posting
the goal is to exercise my writing
each morning
every morning
every day
write at least one full poem
that i’m proud of
(or, at least, that i can look at and call a ‘full poem’)
so when i’m feeling so out of sorts
when i am uncertain where myself/body/mind/spirit
actually is
i can write and write and write and write
until
i find myself once again.
but what happens
when the more i write
the farther away i feel?
(am i just relying on the house
to fix everything?)
(that’s a lot of pressure
on one building…)
(at least i still have this cat
draped over my arms,
tail flapping without breeze,
purrs echoing in my soul,
claws digging into my skin
as a constant reminder
that she probably loves me,
or at least sees me as comfort
which is
honestly
pretty neat.)
kipventures 