writing about things
about losing
and possibly gaining
[about gaming the system
that seems incapable of collapsing
without dire consequences]
about consequential
and inconsequential
choices
for our own choices
will always always always bring
something
to our own lives
but in the grand schemes of planets and universes and stars
what is one
human’s
mistake
[what is one species’
constant
blunder?]
ghost cat
calling out to me
i can hear her better
than even our cat
[unless it’s just our cat
stuck somewhere she
shouldn’t be]
[often the ghost cat
and mowgli
are one in the same]
loving and doting on and still kissing my animals
while holding their faces
and staring into their eyes
and stating
“i’m allergic to you”
is so silly
but so
satisfying
[and almost makes it feel
ok
to have this knowledge]
books
upon books
upon books upon books upon books
that’s what our house is made of
[and i wouldn’t have it
any other way]
maybe time to write
maybe time
to
not
but all i know is
i have tea
beside me
and music
coming from this apparatus
on which i write these words
and i could write for another hour and twenty minutes
or i could
not
and it wouldn’t make much of a difference
for anyone other than
myself
but for myself
it could make
all the difference
in the world
trying
and trying
and trying again
and going
and running
and will there ever be a
rest?
[i mean, there just was
and i think that’s what makes this
sudden
rocket
into doing
so hard…]
sometimes i write things
and i can follow my own train of thought
like “ah, i see this scent/song/experience
reminded me of this other one
and now i gotta work backwards
through poetry
to find all the connections, but they’re there
i see them
clear
as
day”
and then there are times where i’ll just random write words
and even then, sometimes, the underlying meaning
or at least the underlying inspiration
is right there for me to see
clearly
and yet
there are other times
[like very very recently]
where i’ll write a thing
and it’s like my fingers had a mind of their own
and i’ll look at the poem
and think to myself
“what the actual fuck?”
“where in the multiverse did that come from?”
“am i even in the same body as these appendages of mine???”
but i suppose that’s what makes poetry
kinda fun
sometimes
a goal
became a challenge
became a dare
became a pact
and i’m only acting in accordance with
the original wording i signed
onto in this contract
with myself
[perhaps i will stop referring to this as a poetry-writing challenge
with a word count goal
and use instead the words
dare
and
pact
they hold more equal weight
with what this has done
to my soul]
dusty computer screen
don’t fix it
don’t wipe it away
instead enjoy how each speck
catches the sunlight as it streams through the window
a little earlier
and earlier
each morning
[we’re on the upswing now—
it only gets brighter
from here]
i sit here
pining and whining
and wishing and wanting
to call myself
a writer
and i know
i know
my goodness i know
that i am a writer
as soon as i write
and i sit down every morning
and compose poem
after poem
after poem
but this desire is different
i want to create whole worlds with
the tip of my finger/pen/brain
i want to carry an audience on
a whole-ass journey and lead them
from beginning
to middle
to end
what i’m saying is
i wish to write prose
story
script
screenplay
novel
novella
creative essay
anything
i could even do it in poetry
if it felt right
but all i write
are these tiny windows into my own soul
and morning
while day
and night
i have epics unfolding inside me
and the minute i dedicate
a minute
or hour
or day
to getting it down
on paper/document/screen/anything
my skill with words seems
so
elementary
so
amateurish
so
trying too hard and getting not far at all
and i give up after
a page
a paragraph
a word
but the want
it remains
kipventures 