i am trying to write a poem
to collect and examine
what 2023 meant to me
but we still have one more day,
and so much can happen
in just a few hours
so i guess i’ll write a little now,
and a little tomorrow,
and asses throughout these next 48 hours
[minus 9:19]
and see where it gets me
during tomorrow’s
twenty-four
and for now —
breakfast shall be at hand, i believe.
seeing my
[zombie]/[dead] name
doesn’t necessarily bring me pain
it’s really just the expectation of
family
or spam mail of each variety
[either way, i kind of just roll my eyes
and get on with my day]
i need projects
in my life —
creative outlets
with other people —
a collaboration
feeding a conglomeration
of creativity
otherwise
i’m just not me
swirling in my mind
worlds and stories and epic tales
i cannot find
i can’t even look
for fear that the search
is what makes them disappear
so i seem, from the outside, like a normal
everyday
human
maybe a little weird
maybe a little queer
but otherwise fine
but inside…
inside the roiling mess, the boiling mass
of tangles of plot lines
and whole universes overlapping
to the point of chaos
and i want to pull at one solitary string
hoping
it’ll un-loose
and unleash
a story-worthy ~something~
but
i’m scared
it won’t
and i’m even more scared
the harder i pull at one
the farther tangled
the other ones will become
until i’m
all out of opportunities
maybe a modicum of gibberish will help this morning poem come to fruition
a conglomeration of vocabulary i may or may not know the actual definition of
a plethora of words, used correctly or incorrectly
a whole ass menagerie of meaningless syllables somehow bringing meaning to something
in this morning poetry tradition
pie for breakfast
on boxing day —
a day of refreshing,
re-establishing
yourself to the regular world
but still thinking of/
still recovering from/
still dreaming about
the holiday time
from yesterday
and the day before
so keep the spoils and
hold them close at hand
and have
pie for breaking fast
on the morning of boxing day
i’m ignoring
feasts
and presents
and snow
[there’s none here anyhow]
and instead
concentrating on
peppermint
and hot cider
and mulled wine
and good friends
making new
traditions
making old traditions
happier
making things work
in this snow-less escape
that is our regular every day life
in new york city
~~~
down the coffee
slip off to the holiday market
grab cider/
wine/
juice/
anything
to make a mulled wine
happen
and also some stickers
and also some goofy goofs
and also
some
potential
presents
for a new
present moment
~~~
silly,
i
already
know
as the numbers steadily approach
24
the day in december i used to see your face
every year
[along with others
along with others]
my heart hiccups
as i think about seeing you
and remembering i can’t,
not in its living form anymore
it’s a lost loss
one from far away
but so closely held in both of our hearts
you wrote so many letters
to so many people
but you always managed to write to me
and make me feel like i was the only one
i love you i loved you i love you
[this poem has no end
because grief
goes on and on]
cold face
cold hands
cold toes
cold neck
cold arms
cold legs
cold ears
cold everything
when will it all
become spring?
[a poem for the first full day of winter]
kipventures 