lost
by the wayside
trapped
by the tears i cry
[a prison made of droplets
would be very asethetic
indeed]
at least there’s the smell
of cotton candy coffee
to bring me back to
this
reality
[whether or not that’s what i need
is not to be answered right now…
…probably]
overthinking
overfeeling
to the point of it all becoming
[nothing]
and now we’re home,
and watching the outside cats
sniff/fight over/eat the food
i set out for them every morning,
and i have cold coffee next to me,
and speakers playing music,
and everything is back to how it should be —
and it almsot feels like this weekend
didn’t even happen
[but this utter exhaustion speaks
for the drive and time awake
and stress and overnights
in not-our-own-bed
and lack of routine
from this past
weekend
i guess it had to have happened]
the whole concept
of autographs
is so weird
to me
what is the value
of a sheet of paper
with scribbles all over?
i’m actually asking —
is it the fact that they touched it?
the proof of the meet
between you and a famous person?
what about a book on a shelf
that just happens to have the author’s signature
on the inside cover?
no meeting occurred,
no special message inscribed,
just a/the name
in a/the book
they wrote…
and does it still apply
if a famous author signs
a book they didn’t write?
honestly, that’s what i’d like —
a famous/famously trans author
signing all my [wizard child] books;
a woman signing those tomes contrived
by known misogynists
[of which there are so many];
any sort of “blasphemous” writer
signing
a bible —
i personally think that’s worth more than the dime-a-dozen
‘signed by author’
examples
in bookstores all over…
…but maybe that’s
just me
traveling
for a short weekend
away
isn’t the worst decision
to do so
to Boston
the weekend of
St. Patrick’s Day
and to inadvertently book
a hotel stay
in the heart of Irish Pub town
that maybe was a mistake…
dance, for me, was never a release
or an expression of self
[at least before i found circus]
it was always what my body was doing “wrong”
what i needed to “fix” in movement
or appearance
it was so much about “looking”
rather than being
and living
but i’ve been working as a paid backup dancer
for a few months now,
and, granted, this isn’t the most professional
or well-funded endeavor
i’ve ever
been on
or seen,
but
it’s given me
such a whole new perspective
on how healing
and expressive
and giving
dance can actually be
[even though i’m still so critique-y
when i see
what my body does
naturally…
i suppose we all have
something
to work on —
whether it’s flexibility
or a better turn-out
or our own perceptions of self —
we can always be better
and
we can always be kinder
even to ourselves]
the act of visible mending
is a tiny protest to society’s
constant stream of
‘consumerism’
‘respectability politics’
‘appearance is worth everything’ —
it is taking a learned skill,
applying it
loudly
and proudly
and with imperfections,
and telling capitalism to
kindly
go screw itself.
a hassle of a night:
neither of us comfortable
neither of us falling asleep
[though we remain
quite sleepy]
the giggles take us,
then the frustrations,
then the crosswords
which usually lull us
instead carry us through the two-o’clock hour
of finding right answers
and finishing this past sunday’s puzzle
downstairs
with the puppy and
today’s crossword
[today today, since it is far past midnight]
to cuddle on the couch
snack in hand
trying to find where sleep might land
it finally does
[with interruptions, yes,
and puppy hassles]
but dreams do take us
eventually
dragging us
into a reasonable hour for awakeness
and here comes another
fretful
day
the focus isn’t necessarily not here today,
but it is wide and reaching and not necessarily on
the poem piece i’m in the moment making…
maybe it’s on a memory of years and years ago,
and wondering if that one person i interacted with
once
ever thinks fondly on their time helping me
decide what hot sauce i like best on my diner eggs
[i certainly think about them sometimes,
though i don’t even remember their appearance at all…]
maybe it’s on the moment i just had —
looking into the prism that spins rainbows around our house,
but when the sunlight directly flows through it
to ones eyes, one will be blinded in that spot
for approximately the time it takes to write
one stanza of one poem…
maybe it’s on my coffee
or my morning routine
or what i still have to do today
or what i’ll need to be doing later
or maybe my focus is just flitting around
the outsides of my figurative vision, waiting
for my peripheral to catch up with what i have already known
deep down
deep down.
the emptiness
the spite
the despair
the hope that’s barely there
the human condition
that really doesn’t have to be conditional
to billionaires’ whims
there is a different way
[there always was
there always is]
kipventures 