the cat
has her zoomies
up and down the upstairs hall
back and forth
from bathroom to
under-the-bed
and we
(below the galloping stomps and stomping gallops)
ask
“is she having more zoomies than usual?”
“isn’t she a senior cat now?”
“is she maybe training to play with the puppy
once the puppy is all healed
and is allowed to play once more?”
i hope hope hope hope hope
the answer to that last question
is yes
wake
myself up
with poetry
widen my eyes
with words
pump my veins
with phrases
of soft rhymes
and alliterations
and pick up the pace
of morning
with stanzas of
longing
and beauty
wake
myself up
with poetry
my body feels like it is one slight accident away
from complete and total annihilation
but also
like it’s one good massage away from
actually feeling like a full and functional body once again
(so maybe i ought to schedule that body work)
the combination
of jazz
in the ear
and siren
in the distance
somehow
reminds me of
Brooklyn
i haven’t really thought of
Valentine’s Day
in so long.
as a child it merely meant i’d probably get candy
that day
in school
(which, i’ll admit, was pretty cool).
as a teen,
highly aware of my own diverging sexuality,
i only saw loud reinforcements of
heteronormativity
and having that binaried bullshit shoved down my throat.
with Kip, the year they wooed me, they sent four presents
on one Valentine’s
(keep in mind we were not even officially dating at that point)
a song
a string of lights
a website
and origami roses.
and yes, we used to go to the melting pot,
or grab oysters,
or have some sort of dinner;
but COVID and coziness
and now our Valentimes look more like any other time.
but i don’t worry
because we still get excited in the morning to say
“Happy Valentine’s Day!!!”
to each other
i wish i had written more as a child
about what it felt like to be
those ages that i was–
it all felt so solid
inevitable
unchangeable
at the time
but now it slips my mind
i try to hold the grains of sand
as tightly as i can
and i have no specificity
just generic hazy memory
like things
vibes
of times
but i want the solid
the thought processes
the emotions (good and bad and in-between)
i want to remember
me
but instead i get this vague reaching
for who i used to be
and who i might
have grown
into
but none of this feels as solid
as writing does
now
so maybe that’s why i write
every day
even if it feels silly
or poorly crafted
or i don’t know what i’ll ever do with it
i need to find a way to look back
and identify myself
from years away
because sometimes i can’t even identify myself today
a puppy
eating ice cream
and then the whole container
what a treat
~~~
sometimes i worry
that i’m wasting my writing talents
on publishing in a blog
but then i am reminded
of folks who may have thought
i wasted my acting talents
on community theatre
and who is wasting
and who is benefiting
in either of those situations?
is it simply
elitist?
classist?
or simply the whole vibe of white supremacist culture
to give some places
more standing
than others?
i suppose what i’m saying is
tho i wish more folks would read my words
and i saw more accolades and admissions of quality
(moreso for my own validation/vindication/curiosity)
i’ll continue to place it
here
for anyone to come across it
who may want or need it
(including me)
~~~
late night writing
(ok
again
not really that late)
toasty fireplace
cozy tea
coffee ready to be placed in the fridge
for tomorrow morning
when i’ll write all over again
dressed like a pirate
off to pillage and
steal the key to your heart
sunflowers
are my favorite flower.
something about the big, bright, open yellow
captivates me
and makes me
(almost always slightly secretly dour)
smile so huge.
i often forget that half of the flower is brown,
the earth/
the base of nature/
it wouldn’t be a sunflower without that circle of non-yellow;
the seeds to form new flowers in the future
the giving after giving
of joy/
of new life/
of another kind of open-ness.
i know it’s a bit toxic
to constantly give,
but take it from the sunflower:
sometimes giving gives us our own beauty.
is my autocorrect
sabotaging me?
filling in where i mean to leave off?
changing stances in stanzas
that need the awkwardness i placed?
my dear laptop computer,
please—
poetry is a delicate balance
of grammatically correct
and rule-breaking chaos
and i need to tread that line very carefully
so any help from you,
while appreciated,
is really not needed…
so no need to try
so damn
hard.
kipventures 