rib
pain
no
rib annoyance
rib discomfort
ribs [seemingly] rubbing together
and the muscles around them spasming
so much so that i cannot sleep
i cannot write
i cannot concentrate
[but, no, it’s not pain.
pain i could ignore/take something for
discomfort feels like
for
ever
and i hate it]
on our morning walk
the puppy and i saw
a blue jay happily cleaning out the gutters
of a house [we assume] ze does not own—
flinging dead leaves and other debris
blocking the flow
to the ground
flipping zir little head as ze does it
joyfully
[based on what little we know of bird moods]
and i have to know:
was ze contracted to do this work?
is ze fed by the residents and wanted to be kind and give back a bit?
or was ze looking for some food/worms/treasure deep in the muck?
[and if so, did ze end up finding it before ze flew off?]
maybe
i’m just at the end of my
pretending rope/
my imaginary me that makes
me
happy-go-lucky
bubbly and rainbow-y
and i’m starting to see through to my
utter core of goth/emo/darkness —
maybe this pretend me was me
for a time
and maybe this lower me is only a phase
or maybe this is my cycle,
this is my burden to bare
or carry
or lift up into the air
because cycles are natural
time is cyclical
and people live and die and live again in our heads
and everything circles back to the beginning
again
distracting
christmas music
[before thanksgiving/my birthday?!?
aghast gasp!]
i think
it’s because
we keep needing more and more
good things
to look forward to
in this painful, terrible world of ours
overwhelmed
with choice
is how i fraccture my life
how i spend my days
wondering
what i actually
truly
really
want to do/read/wear/make/get into
next
saw a broadway show last night
a show that did Spectacle very well
and i think that’s what i need to start expecting
from broadway —
not art
not top talent
not top tier anything
except Spectacle
i realize this has an edge of
disappointment
to the phrasing,
but i don’t necessarily mean it as such;
i mean, if i stop expecting what broadway isn’t going for
then maybe i *won’t* be disappointed
over
and over
and over
again
i am living in dreams
this morning:
asking my Grandmama all the questions i thought of
at her memorial;
snuggling with my Mom, refusing to question why
her dying would be a test
that i passed
after six months of her gone;
exploring a Gaza un-riddled with holes;
and persuading governments
Not
to fund a genocide.
these are my
wildest imaginings in sleep.
meandering thinking
writing
reprocessing my brain-wiring
into something maybe more conducive
to living life
calmly
patiently
happily
[if i can dream]
most days i’m at least
a little
excited to write
something
but this morning
damn near
nothing
makes me want to go
the way i normally go
[i’ve been shopping for unnecessary new clothes
as if i can change my entire life
by dressing like
someone new]
my fear
is so loud
that i’ll write about something
i don’t understand
and offend
or embarrass
[others/myself in that order]
and rather than trying
and learning
i hide
and hide harder
and hide longer
and hide farther into myself
just wanting
wanting
wanting
to write
but never doing any of it in sight.
kipventures 