i suppose the reason
i’m so damn nervous
about this upcoming performance
is because it’s the only one.
i can overthink
and over prepare
and over-wrack my nerves
because i’m not at the point
yet
where performing is just
my way of life
(it doesn’t help
that this is the first live one
since before the pandemic,
so the pressure
mounts
immeasurably)
how is my head
so good
at telling me what’s real,
but also
so sneaky
at telling me
what could be?
when my emotions are out of control,
when my logic has failed me,
my mind is the savior
who reminds me–
‘obsess not on the past
or the future;
life is life,
not a rehearsal,
not a rough draft,
chill here
and you will end up
enjoying it
i swear’
but when my emotions
are at the beginning
of fraught-ness,
my mind is the one
logic-ing me to terror:
‘even if this goes
the best it could possibly go,
there are still so many bad things
that could happen
as a result’
or
‘you’re feeling good–
need i remind you
that there are children starving
not just halfway around the world
but also down the street?
ah, i do need to remind you;
there are animals being uselessly abused,
others being wastefully killed,
the planet is dying,
and so are black people
at the the hands of those hired under the guise
of protection,
but now we know
that they are not legally required to do so.
but what of the people who still can’t see it–
as a white person, is it not your job
to tell those other white folks
how disastrous
and dangerous
their opinions plus their power
is?’
and on and on and on and on
my mind saving me from myself
and then serving me up on a silver platter
for my anxieties to take over
subject matter by subject matter
and the cycle continues
(and i at least know how much
i hate
circles)
i’ve been reading a book
about great poet-scientists
of the last few centuries,
and within these last few chapters of the book
the author (and voices from the past)
have assessed
that the greatest authors–
the greatest poets
are ones
who are
open
and honest
with their
emotion
and i think i am not yet there.
my poetry is very head-y.
most poems appear in my head
as something like
‘i think’
not at all
‘i feel’
and maybe that is my access to my emotions
[head to heart to body]
and, although i’d like to get there someday,
i really don’t think i am quite there
yet
even my depression
is very thought-based;
a reaction to an over-thinking mind
that won’t shut up about
all the pains and sufferings in the world
and how i could do something about it
if only i were as powerful as i
thought myself to be
so i’m not yet there
emotionally
in my poetry,
but someday
i may be
and when that happens,
y’all had better look out
(because i’ve had so much practice
with these mind-based poems of mine,
my emotion-based art will be
so great)
…(or, watch, it’ll read
like a three-
year-old
wrote it)
(but that’ll be ok
because it will be mine.
and it will
it will
it will be
honest)
my stomach
is twisted–
torqued toward itself.
is it nerves?
is it stress?
(was it hunger?)
could it be
all of the
above?
once again
i am stuck
pondering
what in the world
i’d thought of
to write
last night
when this morning
my brain
doesn’t seem to light
up
with any words
or concepts
or phrases
just stages
of grief
over lost
concepts
we’ve repurposed a large tupperware container
into where we put all the pieces of paper
and threads of former toys
computer has ripped through
with her sharp puppy teeth
and we call it her art collection
and i love it
we also have
two of her puppy teeth,
molars that fell
outside
rather than down the throat,
and we’re thinking of putting them
in her art jar as well
because she did make them
and they are
art
~~~
the puppy has learned
that the top of the soft crate
can help her see
over the room-fence-divider,
and also
can keep her cool
on hot summer days
(now to see how long
the zippered canvas
will hold her weight
as she grows…)
~~~
Louka
was cat-like
in the way that she was
not very dog-like
Computer
is very cat-like
in many mannerisms
and play-approaches
and active qualities
(the passive
and the active
cat-like qualities)
(meanwhile our cat
is more monkey
than any other creature,
so…)
hammock days
(the relax, not the circus)
under the mosquito net
on top of the shade umbrella
a perfect
Bronx
morning
~~~
it feels weird
writing morning
poems
on a deck
so far from
the regular
place
but fuck it,
it’s
lovely
~~~
the soft netting
weaves
in the breeze
(you don’t need to find any metaphors,
comparisons
or similes
that it is like;
it is just itself)
the bird calls
intermingle
with the spotify playlist
of classical
(or indie)
(or ‘garden music’)
(whatever that means)
and the netting hides us from
the other creatures
who call our yard
home
~~~
is the mosquito netting
hiding us
from the squirrels and birds and other such wildlife
or are the animals simply getting used to our
presence?
(or does it matter
when the morning
is this
damn
gorgeous
?)
~~~
and what of the sun
not shaded
by the umbrella?
(to burn
or not to burn,
that is the question.)
(and sunscreen is
the answer)
i [might] have
hit the point
where my body of work is
Prolific
[but quantity doesn’t indicate quality]
[though practice makes perfect—
or
at the very least permanent—]
and is it actually
Prolific
if i am the only one
aware
of it all?
~~~
400+ days of writing
poetry
every morning
a solid amount of those mornings
(like this very one)
Three-Poem-Days
and even more housing
multiple drafts of multiple poems
not yet seen by
The Internet
but if i’m simply writing free-form/
stream of consciousness/
‘do it but don’t worry about it’
kinds of things,
churning
but not editing/
or revising/
or analyzing/
or anything of the sort
does that not become
at some point
Junk?
~~~
my greatest poem
within this experiment
was seen by more people
but has not been posted here.
a slam poem written
from a prompt
intended for a monologue
(originally from a spell)
i learned (from that poem) that prompts are friends
and a one-week due-date
with daily revisions
and one solid subject matter
are useful in my creative process
i am actively proud of that poem
and i want to write more like it
(with the passion/
and verse/
and poetical devices/
and wholeness)
so why do i not
actively
seek out
prompts,
nor let myself
take time
to edit
any of these
anymore?
poems pulsating
through my mind
as i find
myself
at that coast of consciousness
trying to remember
the words as they came together
the alliteration and rhyme
after so much time
asleep
and in the morning
nothing
ever
comes to me.
the last few Junes
i’ve been filled more
with Gay Wrath
than Gay Pride;
seeing into the system
that kills our
Black and Brown comrades
and lulls us white queers
into a false sense of security,
complicity
with a system that wants our cash
but never wants our voices
or change for our liberation,
viewing the systems:
the patriarchy,
the white supremacy,
the capitalistic [lack of] integrity,
and learning that
though i’m part of the system
i can do very, very little about it
individually.
this morning
June 1
the first day of pride
in the crazy year of
2022
i simply feel
tired
perhaps this is my
Gay Sloth month?
no, that doesn’t sound right.
Sloth implies a desired laziness
naps for pleasure
on-purpose leisure
(though i did read
somewhere
once
that sloth might have meant
not laziness
but depression–
the dread that goes into that
catatonic inability to get up in the morning–
that is the sloth i am all too familiar with…)
so perhaps this year
is the year
of Gay Sloth
of Gay Existential Crisis
Gay Over-It-All
i am still out and proud
and will give everything to help
others
feel that way too;
my rainbow hair can be your beacon
if you need one,
but rainbow capitalism has stopped
luring me
has stopped
infuriating me
and i guess i’m at the point where
my only reaction
is a big roll of my eyes
and a reminder
to actually research
Why
the first Pride was a Riot
Why
there should be no pigs at Pride
Why
marriage equality isn’t what we thought
(i’ll give you a hint:
it starts with disability rights
and ends at capitalism)
and Why
Why
Why
we do still need Pride
i know
why
we still need Pride.
kipventures 