so interesting
that i’ve been on such a
space
kick
recently
like i’m so done with our world
and how we treat this planet
that i’m hopeful
out in space
at least
something
is different
[how dare billionaires get to explore interstellarly
when i’d like to do such
just to get the fuck
away from them]
sometimes
subjects will mull around in my brain
for days
weeks
maybe months
[sometimes years]
before i write them down
in poem form
it’s like steeping a tea full of thoughts
so that, when i go to write it, it’s actually flavorful enough to taste
and perhaps taste is the way words come to me
[i do care about mouth-feel]
and expression is as much about
the emotion
as it is
the explanation
so the next time i’m pondering a subject matter
and think to myself “why haven’t i written it out yet?”
i can just answer
“it’s still stewing
still steeping
still brewing
give it time
give it time
it’ll taste better
with a little more time
[have you ever
not
written it out?]”
what a perfect day
to stay at home
and do some sewing
or some reading and writing
and just chill
while the wind howls
and the rain pours
and the sky dumps all it has
upon our holiday house
this puppy
is so damn cute
i cannot handle it
i cannot handle it
playing with the squeaker of a long-gone toy
placing it gently in my hand
and nudging it forward
for me to throw
and the utter delight as she scrambles
on all of her feeties
trying to catch the squeaker as it bounces
unevenly
across the floor
or the container from yesterday’s dog ice cream
handing it off to me
in order to play tug
or just lick it some more
getting the last little bits of flavor
out from the waxed cardboard
or just laying on the ground
and looking up at me
with her giant, beautiful, trusting, dark-rimmed
puppy dog eyes
and white eyebrows
[evolutionarily placed there
just so her species
could mimic mine]
and i don’t always know what she’s thinking
but i know she’s trying to communicate with me
with little
stomps of her feet
or half-breathy boofs
or a hesitant wag of her tail
or just a side-look
and my heart melts
and i am putty for her
because she is putty for me
and we collapse into each other
enjoying being
puppy and human
and not too dissimilar
for a moment
in time
one word to get across the finish line
of a word count goal
that is all mine
and i did it
just for me
just for me
the puppy is so whine-y
and hassle-y
and i think she just wants
to play with me
or have me
play with her
but i never know exactly what she wants
attention?
scritches?
a throwing of the ball?
to just have us not be staring at a screen?
[i mean, i’m writing this whole poem
with my eyes only on her
checking in every now and then
to make sure i’ve hit
the right button on my keyboard,
but she’s still whining
still hassling
still being
a silly little
waggity-tailed
puppy
with her gorgeous brown eyes
gazing up at me
and her little puppy barks
melting
my damn heart]
i should have known
i’d swing the far reaches of the pendulum
the opposite way
going from
‘everyone must know my name
or i’m an ultimate failure’
to
‘if i’m known, my peace is unprotected;
and i’d rather stay at home and be safe’
[i suppose it’s not the wildest swing
known to humankind
but it sure does feel…
extreme]
look at it snow
look at it snow
the frozen, wet wet droplets, careening down to the ground
with all their friends, with all their friends,
coating our new york city
with a wintry wonderland mix of
wet and beauty
white and sludgy
and making me feel like
i’m almost ready
for the rest of this season
[but only if it’s going to be
this
gorgeous]
the problem with having dreams
about places and people you haven’t seen
in some time, is that they all tend to
mesh
and merge
together, becoming one big amalgamation of
The Past™
or This Point In My Life™
or Anyone And Anything I Haven’t Thought Of In A While™
and though i appreciate
that my brain is constantly churning
even at night
and never lets anything
go,
i do wish the memories were
clearer,
so i could actually contact
whoever my subconscious
is missing
at any given point
and actually reach out to them
and say
hello
i wonder
if i whiled away my morning hours
finding the rhymes
and alliterations with time,
if i’d feel more
connected/
more a part of/
more in line
with my silly morning poems —
if i seriously sat still
thinking of the perfect line
the perfect rhyme
the perfect kind of poem to
express
and impress
and decompress
and perhaps then
i’d force my poems on others
[but, as it stands now, i can only make that happen
for like half to two thirds of a full poem,
and then i let go the pretense, and get back to the words
that just make sense
with my morning brain]
kipventures 