my brain started the day
just craving sleep
it moved on to listing/spreadsheeting/
organizational breathing deep—-
the calm that comes from analytical endeavors
and i assumed that would negate the need for poetry
but my surprise rises in perpetuity
as i spit rhymes and find lines i didn’t know i
craved
with the very soul of me
i’ve expressed so much in so little time
in so very few lines
and it’s not even 9…
how can i remember
remembering
but can no longer remember
the actual thing?
~~~
it hurts my soul
to see our puppy so
sad and distressed
standing still in a cage
but it’s for her own good
and i wish
i wish
i could
explain to her in words
she’d comprehend:
‘just a few more days
and after, take it easy
and then, hopefully,
no more
puppy
prison’
~~~
how do people
craft poetry
instead of just letting
their guts fly free
internal thought process
and emotionality
all nakedly out
for any perusing
reading
eye to see?
theorizing
contemplating
mind-experimenting
camp
villains
trans
queer-coded
self-determination
everything’s a performance
let’s just have all the fun we can
[and someday tell our own stories
out
loud]
again
one day gone
feels like a lifetime
away
insert word here
add another phrase
perhaps a whole sentence in this middle place
slow down the thoughts to
one
word
per
line
a slightly askew way of looking at that subject
hangs out in this short stanza by itself
[and that’s how i write poetry]
flash of a memory
(why is it almost always driving)
rocky river to lakewood
bridge over the
metroparks valley
the color salmon pink
(was it a house?
an apartment building?
the color of the sky in sunset?)
riding along
early lessons
late hangouts
always right on time for rehearsals
the flat expanse of northeastern ohio
spreading a suburb out in front of my eyes
somehow gorgeous in its
midwestern gothic/
abandoning the american dream/
passenger seat
then driving, driving, driving
knowing a portion of that street so well–
but the memory starts farther back
a path i only drove a
handful of times
farther back
farther back
seeing the road i took
seeing the memories out in front
seeing to the side where my grandmother survived
(i wish i had asked her more questions about her life)
why are my memories
still so full of
other
memories?
speaking back to our dog
in words as she barks
whines
shrieks
because she
hurt her leg
*again*
(is this the fifth time? sixth? seventh that we are aware of?)
(definitely the third since surgery)
and the worst part of all this is,
to her little puppy brain,
having to stay still in a cage
while we are out, but within her sight—
caught in crate rest
unable to express her freedom;
how terribly cruel, she must think us,
for insisting she lay herself down
rather than hop up on two legs
(only one of which is at full health)—
and yet she continues to speak at us
in ways we don’t quite understand
(and least in an exact kind of way,)
but we know her intruder barks
her ‘there’s a cat there!’ barks
her ‘my toy is stuck somewhere i can’t reach’
and her ‘my best friend is outside without me!’
and this is definitely a ‘why can’t i just be myself
and roam rambunctiously free’ bark
but if she continues
to freak out
and only listen to her commands
for a few seconds at a time,
it will be puppy solitary
for the next little while
(which feels more cruel
but at least she stops
being a menace to her own
health)
the mood settles
down
down
down
deep into the depths of the frown
my marrow molds me
not the opposite
and i need me to be
a little more flexible
a little more malleable
a little less conditioned to find any stress/any sadness
so permanent
that i find myself affixed to my future of
‘i’ve got the morbs
forever more.’
but can i/will i/could i?
[should i?]
meditate on love
coding
and community
what an anniversary!
sitting here
thinking of neurodivergence
thinking of
anxiety and depression
thinking of
acting from such a young age
thinking of
diagnoses and non
thinking of
societal standards
thinking of
pressure and constructs
thinking of
freedom from expectations and all that
~~~
experiment
think of words not often written
ponder places and things alike
you rarely ever write about
and maybe
just maybe
your poetry can have fresh(er)
life
~~~
to write about what i’m feeling:
a little bit of pain
a lot of hunger
love for my dog and for my kip
(and begrudging love for our
hassle cat)
the cold of the ice pack
the water flowing from esophagus
to stomach
and on
the tap of my elevated leg
toe against air
to the tempo of the music
yawns
tiredness
worry about armpit stinkiness
this whisker poking out from my chin
and an extreme itchiness on my scalp, under my braid
my teeth clenched together
(relax, relax, relax)
the taste of this blueberry coffee
and a little bit more centered
than when i started this poem
kipventures 