no creative energy
no inspirational flow
no way to know
if this is how it is today
or if i just need to let my imagination
go
~~~
so
i suppose
i’ll write
~~~
a glitch
in the system
a ghost
in my computer
a little spark of the unknown
is everywhere
around us
why do i,
an arachnophobic,
daydream
of a precious little jumping spider buddy?
the tiny tail wags
from a puppy who sees a cat
whom she hopes to befriend,
and the larger tail whips
from a cat who isn’t necessarily mad,
but definitely doesn’t want this friendship
as much
as the dog
wants it
and we poor humans
no tails to show our emotions
we must rely on (unreliable) facial expressions
and (unexpressive) english words.
poor
us.
i wish i knew how stories started
i just happen upon the middle of a tale
and try to recite it from there
but i get tangled in the information
the exposition
and the context
and i can’t tell how much everyone else
needs
niche storytelling practices
need niche audiences
to hear them
and i am but one
person
who out there is like me?
abandoned the Queer Liberation March
for our family
(but i think that’s what queer liberation means —
the choice to care for those around you,
for your family to be accepted and seen/
the queer love and joy (and pain and sorrow)
seen/ as equivalently normal
to straights
and cis’s)
so
while we no longer have the perfect track record
of only going to the Queer Liberation March
since moving to new york,
at least we retain our record
of never attending nyc corporate pride
(and that almost feels more apt
in this capitalistic grind consumerist colonizer society
of ours)
started three different poems
and the scheme has led me
to perfect rhymes every time
(whether i’ve chosen to write down that path
is another story entirely)
and i feel like
rhyming poetry
is no longer
my own
it is taken over
by expectation
and rules
and it’s no longer my own
it’s no longer my own
(but is a poem
ever
anything to own?)
sometimes i write extraordinarily dark poetry
and i kind of forget
once it’s out of me
how it could be read
interpreted
ingested and understood
by others
i’m just here getting my best and worst feels
out into the void
apologies to the void
for having to ever
absorb
this profound pain
hungry
worried
early
morning
mundane and
not so mundane
worried
so worried
still hungry
~~~
calm morning
of stress
wanting
less
of the drama that comes from
this little broken puppy pup
but still
we’d rather
have her
all torn ligaments
and fractured bones
and menacing hassles
than not
~~~
it’s so strange to hear
simple
calm
piano
in the morning
i’m used to
acid jazz
and electronic house
and more chaotic sounds
to wake up to
but the calm simplicity
seems to be helping me
find more in my poetry
(and harmonizes well with a sighing puppy)
i sit here
at my keyboard
wishing to hold the solstice
in higher regard
wanting a celebration
a consistent practice
an honoring of some kind
and i know,
i know,
that i have the ability to do so–
i have the calendar
and adult wherewithal
and resources
to make this happen–
but i feel trapped
by the depression
that anticipates
the worst
of time flowing by
instead of celebrating
our earth still turning
my lungs still breathing
our days still day-ing
until they
no longer
do
how long
can i hate myself
and come out the other side
to love
it has to be a flat circle
like time
no?
~~~
weird ass songs
fill my
weird ass heart
with
weird ass vibes
of
weird ass love
(hahaha, ass-love)
~~~
i feel as though my poetry
is getting less and less
hinged
i.e.
more and more
and more and more and more
unhinged
as the words/years/time flies by
but maybe i was always this unhinged
it just took a little while
to write
kipventures 