Author: HJ

March 23, 2022

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working from what is best
best for me
best for my brain…

there are dozens (hundreds?) of poems
that never got to see the page of day
the poetry blog where all these have run off to
and some of them, yes, they are simply me
trying to wake myself up
vibe myself into the rest of the day
figure out what in the heck
my brain
is even doing
at any given moment

but some are
objectively
*good*
they just didn’t fit with the other poems for that day
or they’re too personal
and i just
cannot
i can’t have that out in the world
at least not on the inter-webs.

it’s like
i’m still that open book
with pages ripped out
and stuffed in my back pockets
or otherwise eaten
digested
you’ll never see them

(and it still surprises
even me
what things i’m willing to be so open about
and what i’m not,
and i think it has a little bit to do with what’s still affecting me
hardcore
and what makes sense to affect me
this hard
this long;
and
yeah
that’s all

[i was going to give examples
but like i said
already digested])

~~~

the blank toe tag
waves in the
non-existent breeze
hanging off of our
plastic skeleton
(named Barnaby)
and i know that there probably is a breeze
it’s probably the hot air from the radiator
just beneath
but still
i like to imagine
ghosts
messing with our deathly decoration aesthetics
as if to say
‘it’s/we’re
closer than you think!’

~~~

i feel like i could turn that first poem
into something more,
something bigger,
literally
solely
from that last stanza
there is a pace and flow and rhyme and feel
that gives slam poetry
that gives life to the creative in me
that gives me reason to keep going
to keep flowing
to maybe not post that today
but to perfect it
and bring it back
(or
who says i need to refrain from posting
in order to play?)

(fuck it, let’s post all three)

March 22, 2022

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capture
the way
poetry
made you feel;
say
the phrases
only you
could come up with
within your big [fat] brain
(we all thought that was hilarious
way back in grade three:
‘you have lots of fat in your head,
if someone calls you a fat-head
say “thanks, it’s true!”’
so thanks, Bill Nye,
for giving us both an insult
and rebuttal
in one educational episode)

but the words
and flows
don’t flow
the way they ought
they used
to
they should
too
be calling from my mind
climbing
clambering
to come out
like i once came out
no, wait,
twice
came out
first from the closet
then from the binary
and finally,
maybe someday,
i’ll just come out from expectations set upon me
through old traditions
and new
and if i only knew
how to come out from under my own
oppressive
thumb
how free could i be?

but
the feral cat is still meowling
somewhere
outside
and the music is making
both myself
and my spouse
subtlety sway side to side
and the coffee hasn’t entered my system
fully
quite yet
and i wish there was a way
to have a style
without
reusing the same tired
words
phrases
that i use
every day
in every poem
in every way they come to me
(but i suppose that might be
because
humans
and humanity
and only having a certain capacity
and phases actually being a thing
that happens
it’s just, sexuality/gender is not usually one of them
(but sometimes they are, that doesn’t make them
less legitimate
and real)
(and, as a cis human, isn’t your gender ever-phasing
ever-changing
too?
is what you thought as the most important part
of being a boy/man
the same as it was when you were 7?
15?
20?
40?
70?)

all of life is moments
phases
fading in and out

let’s just acknowledge
pay attention
and enjoy the ride.)

March 21, 2022

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i still don’t know
if i’ve learned anything
from this
poem-a-day
experiment

i have no idea if i’m a better writer
a better poet
(if there is such a thing
if one is predominantly participating
in free-verse
and experimental expression)

i feel like i’ve
experimented
with schemes and patterns
i might not have even tried
before this every-day
poem-writing
made me contemplate
what made my poetry
mine
and what made my poetry
interesting
and what made me
excited
to write
and what made me
excited
to read

even still
i have no concept
of what good vs. bad poetry
is
especially in relation to my own
and therefore
i have no idea
if i’ve gotten even a little bit better
(or worse)

but i haven’t run out of things to say
so there’s that.

March 20, 2022

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New York City
is giving us
a true
spring!

(for the first time
in years)

yes, we were here in
Brooklyn
for two springs in a row,
but you’ve got to admit
the spring of
2020
was a little more surrealistic
than springtime
in terms of
~everything~
and please, Brooklyn, forgive us
for only observing
your brick walls
consistently
and so rarely entering
the park five minutes away

and before that,
Wisconsin,
with its approximate
two days of spring
(slightly more if you count
‘muddy’
as the season)
and half the time
snow would hit
full force
months after
we thought
spring was finally upon us
(and the next day
the blistering heat
of a midwest summer)

but here
in our own yard
we’ve seen the green
pop up from the ground
and even the days were a little snow
sprinkled the earth
the buds didn’t give up
they kept up
popped out
now, not just green,
we have purple, yellow, white,
black bumble bees buzzing
(a veritable enby flag of a backyard)

and we’ve eaten breakfasts,
had coffee,
made calls,
read,
worked,
watched,
on a deck that overlooks it all

and we breathe it in
slowing down
soaking it up
like the sun

A Bronx Spring.

March 19, 2022

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writing about bagels
and reading about bagels,
reading about reviewing bagels
and writing about bagels once more

all thew while making/eating/pondering
bagels

it’s been a very bagel-y couple of days

[but when is it not
in New York City?]

March 17, 2022

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my sense of self
has never grown
past the age of the trauma

and while i’ve continued to wade through
life
and experiences
past eleven years old,
the photographic evidence proves nothing.
as that isn’t me.
can’t be.

maybe that’s why it felt so good
to change my appearance
so drastically;

the old ‘look’ was simply a shadow
of who i imagined i was,
a poorly made copy
adding weight
and height
and unnecessary curves
and worry in the heart and mind

but maybe this me
recreated like a phoenix from the ashes
of who i thought i’d be
can be the one who finally
stands in front of the small
blonde
little [girl]
in a frilly dress
and skinned knees,
and they can look this
non-binary adult
with rainbow hair
and gender-euphoria pants
and at last say
with confidence
and ownership
and love
“that’s me!”

March 16, 2022

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quiet the mind,
shush the brain,
but don’t force the silence
because then that’s all that remains.

i wonder if that’s why others’ poetry
takes longer to write;
because rhythm/rhyme/meter
don’t all happen in one night,

or just one setting,
like sitting in this morning page sun
listening to Japanese hip-hop lofi
and just kinda ~wish~ my scheme into one

sentence
then another
and another
and losing track
and losing steam
and losing the scheme
i [vaguely] thoughtfully put in here
and hearing the rhymes in my head
but only scattered/stilted/disjointed/
disappointed
i continue on
disrupting any complex pattern that might have arisen
so i can continue on this mess of a poem
and pretend that’s just
How I Write

(instead of
how
i think)

March 15, 2022

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writing
a thing
but not the way i want to be
writing it
not in the way i’ve imagined
saying it
not in the context and meter and rhythm i’ve
dreamt it

and i’m hesitating words in a way i
never do

is this all some sort of quandary
of feeling ‘off’
simply because my coffee is hot
[[not
iced]]?

March 14, 2022

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i don’t have
many memories
from childhood

an iconic moment here

a rush of emotion there

the things that i did all summer
bundled into one specific instance

mostly
{like my thoughts}
i have
vibes

generally
my memories
consist of the
aura
of childhood
of carefree freedom
imagination
the feeling of being
too big for that tiny body
to old for this world
(or maybe too big for this small world
and too old for that young body)

and as my memories age out
from childhood
to tween,
pre-teen,
teenage-hood,
young-adulthood
the memories get darker
angstier
and even the vibes
are less clear

the older i got
the swirlier the emotions became

until something happened
and i feel like i burst forth
from a cauldron of muck
and murky emotions
and became fully me

[when did that happen?
when i hit my stride in my early/mid 20’s?
when i chopped off all my hair
and started caring less
about what i was ‘supposed to’ be?
when i finally birthed myself out of the
strong-arm of academia?
when i met kip?
when i figured out i was non-binary?
when i started feeling more like i did
at 9?
(even though, emotionally, i do still have times/days/stints
of 19-year-old me?)]

memories are fickle
and i feel as though mine might be
fickler than most

but hey,
the vibes of my childhood,
overall,
they were simply
exquisite.