it took until
the night before
the last day of February
for snow to fully blanket
New York City
and that last day,
did it glisten and glow?
did it soften the world?
were there snowmen and angels about?
no.
24 hours post-semi-blizzard,
the air around it
started to melt the white stuff,
and turn it into ice over that night,
and dripping, dropping slush the next day.
what a grey and gloomy,
cold and foreboding,
proof of climate change winter
we’ve had this year
slant rhymes
sidelines
within this line the image aligns
too obvious
too salacious
too heavy-handed to be a poem by my hand
but here i am
writing just for writing’s sake
opening my soul to a computer screen
to see what
(if anything)
takes
we have such
dramatic plants
in this house
drooping/
withering/
shriveling up
if we water them less
than twice a week
but add water
and it’s like watching those pill pockets filled
with strange sponge creatures
slowly grow into
full being
[again]
and of course
heaven forbid we
over-water those same plants…
it’s a delicate balance
and one i’m only just starting
to learn
[hence knowing/seeing
how dramatic, really
these plants can be]
i’m not in the mood
to poetize
today
maybe i will be
later
but now
i’d rather be cleaning
picking up the tiny little things
that make this table less clutter-y,
i’d rather be sweeping
vacuuming
bringing down indoor fences
so our puppy can romp around the downstairs
without the temptation of the couch
just yet,
i’d rather be chatting with my spouse/
beading random accessories/
eating/drinking/getting the day started/
watching the puppy
destroy all our craft supplies/
i’d rather be doing anything
but poem-writing
and yet
here i am:
faithful and firm/
stubborn and steadfast,
i made a vow/
committed to a challenge,
and i’m nothing if not
consistent
[ish]
am i vibing
with writing
or am i in need of
sustenance
or am i still concerned
with potential
or lack thereof
or am i just
kind of
tired?
the cat is exploring
the downstairs
once more
the first time(s)
since the puppy arrived
she’s finally comfortable enough
to be in the same floor level
as the spastic young dog
but only because
the dog is
all crated up
what will happen with the puppy has free reign
of the downstairs
again?
[im]perfection
plagues my mind
i strive for it
though i know it’s
unattainable
i try to rewire
rewrite
the narrative
the choice
to choose imperfection
but the core of me whispers
‘what if you’re just not trying hard enough
and you
and only you
are the one person who could do it
perfectly
and you’re just proving how much of a failure you are
by choosing
not to
try’
and i am stuck
in this cycle
never-ending
that only ends in
failure
failure
failure
a failing
of
me
the concept of community scares me
and i know the ancestors of this land
would balk
at that self-assessment
but i bet white supremacy would smile
feeling/being only beholden to oneself
makes for
either
one great bootstraps story
or
one of many that the upper-crust doesn’t have to deal with
other than as
stepping stones
but i was born and raised in this society
that values individuality above all else
and insists that, even within social standing
that place is precarious at best
(imagine entire books/movies/tv episodes
about a whole friend group
turning against you
for no reason other than
they can)
so to be solidly a part of a posse
you should be the one holding
all the power
that isn’t sustainable
that isn’t healthy
that isn’t the way humanity should be
but
i’ve lived it
multiple times
so please, caretakers of turtle island
i feel whispering in my flailing mind
from time to time,
forgive me as i resist the concept of community
and rely on only myself
and my spouse
for literally everything–
i’m only doing what i was taught
for the first 30 or so years of my life
and experienced from others
taught the same way…
my heart is vulnerable
but quite willing
to learn
i’m pretty great
at
poetry of the mundane
(if i can give myself that credit)
but i’ve been edging towards
a more gruesome poetry
as of late
poetry of the gross daily tasks
the icky parts of being human
the scattered co-morbids of mental illness
the ones with strange satisfactions
and i don’t want to subject readers to such poems
as odes to pimple popping
and detailed descriptions of how my anxiety makes me
pick my skin to bleeding
but
they are part of my human experience
so maybe
they are also a part
of yours
?
the focus
of today
is failing
whether i write one hundred words
or one
i can’t seem to keep them all in line
with one another
i’m not one to give up
but i am known for knowing
when i’m fighting a losing battle
and maybe it’s simply time
to give myself
a [day’s]
break
kipventures 