just write through
the pain and
the loss and
the lost feelings and
the sleepiness and
the exhaustion and
the boredom and
the mundanity and
the distractions and
the battles and
the fight and
when the fight leaves us
for an hour or a day or a year
or so
we can write ourselves
back into the fight
if it means enough to us
[and yes, it means enough
to me]
i’ve been legislated out of existence
[or so some people seem to hope]
but i still feel pretty damn real
so try something else,
you absolute
fools.
my focus is
all over the place
wandering from
poetry
to internet-ing
to excitement for performing
to worry about the weather
to anticipation of the possibilities of my own
silly
videos
to apprehension of the upcoming
~event~
of tomorrow…
and i have no conclusion to this poem
for my focus can’t stay on one thing long enough
for such luxuries as
a nice
~ending~
there’s something that i’d love to capture
in words and poetry
that i don’t know if i ever will
because i can’t really explain
even in sense memory
the vibes of the car ride
through protected valley park
and up into the city/suburb
that was my second home/
that i knew was my grandparents’ first home/
that my whole family had worked
or played at
or seen
at least once,
and how it kept that vibe
of excitement
and homecoming
for so long —
long enough that i can remember it
as an early early memory
riding in the backseat/
riding in the passenger’s seat/
driving myself/
knowing where i was going to
was where i belonged
even if i felt just a little out of whack with everyone
it was more like a phase shift
than a whole different universe
[like most of my life]
and i could get lost
in the flow of acting
or dancing
or singing
or hanging with friends
or creating something
or everything
and simply the anticipation
of arriving at a place
that i knew so well
and felt
was mine
that even the drive felt like
home
[and it’s actually very different now,
but last i was there
it still smelled the same]
apparently
i first opened this version
of scrivener
in january of 2021.
or,
more specifically,
january 17
in the morning.
and i only noticed the “first opened” notification
on this january 17
today
in the morning
[though in the 7:00 hour, not the 8,
as was the case
in 2021]
and i still can’t get over
the passage of time,
nor the happenstance
and connection
in my life.
but
i think it’s interesting
when things just kind of
align
and line up
and i can take that however
i like
half-formed poems
catastrophizing stuck in my head
until i think i’ll burst if i don’t
say
something
and then it’s there stuck in my throat
when i remember
actual
catastrophes
all while i’m too tired to sleep
and too sad to cry
and everything feels like a clock ticking down
down
down
but to what
inevitable
terror?
[or is this simply life in late-stage capitalism/climate crisis disaster?]
writing out what i need to work through,
but jumbles of feelings
and half-formed stanzas of
partially-formed thoughts
aren’t really something i’d want to share with
‘the public’
[or even, really, with myself]
so i guess i’ll write about writing
for the three-hundredth
three-thousandth
three-millionth time
and post that here
and hope
it at least makes some sense
and doesn’t feel too
deja vu-y
so
i woke up at 4:45
and played the game of
“what will put me back to sleep”
because my brain was too awake with
anxiety
so i learned some french
and sign language
and cuddled my kip and my puppy
and stared at a crossword puzzle
and the internet
and even tried
just breathing
but
by 5:35
i was still in my too-awake-era
and kip wanted to get up anyway
so we both placed some clothes on our bodies
and i bundled up with the dog on a walk
and fed both animals
and sat down to write
and now it’s just past 6:30 am
and it feels strange to stare at the outside
pitch black
and think about how i’ve been awake already
for almost two hours
but i suppose that’s what happens
when stress brain just won’t
turn
off
every time
we see a thirteen
in the date, we have to say:
“gasp! happy manniversary!”
even if it’s not a friday
even if it’s not in may
because every thirteenth
is our favorite day
[even when they don’t go so well,
or we don’t really celebrate
our anniversary
that day]
and we need a little more
joy
in our lives these days
[so here’s to
eight years
and eight months
of marriage!]
it’s a
sweatpants day/
a
chill at home
day/
a
get all the chores done
in comfort
kind of
day
and that is a-ok.
kipventures 