it is december
it is december
i’m allowing myself these
twenty-five to thirty-one days
of holiday feeling
[perhaps it’s a mistake,
but,
in nyc i believe
i am not beholden to old memories —
this city makes new ones all the time
and i can learn from all of that
and all of those
and have an nyc holiday season
instead of suffering from memories
of midwest christmases
long since passed]
a poem
to center
not distract
a poem
to wake up
not relax
a poem
to get the brain
the body
the mind
the soul
going
a poem
to bring me into
this world
this day
this moment of time
into
maybe even
myself
a poem.
i wish i had a longer fuse
or understood how to deal with the concept of
actual siblings
or something
to make me less
full of stress
when kip’s family comes to visit
perhaps i could make a book
based entirely on my
nonsense poetry
and perhaps it would get published
and perhaps scholars would study it
and wonder of the words i’m putting out there
and what they all mean
together
and i would have to tell them,
with a sorry expression
but still a devilish glint to my eye,
“my apologies, my guy,
it just means
nothing”
[and perhaps that in and of itself
would send the next generation of academics
into a whole new
tizzy]
silly b-day times
with pies for breakfast
and original mystery afternoons
and i’m still so stoked to see
my birthday date
scrawled across the top of
everything
today
[happy b-day to me!]
the only bad part
about enjoying coffee in the morning
is the moment when
there are naught but dregs in the bottom
and you have to admit
there is no more coffee to drink
in your mug.
[but, if you’re lucky, there’s more in the pot
where it all came from
and you can enjoy more
right there and then
from whence the first cup came from,
or in an hour (or so)
if you prefer your coffee
cold]
we are good kips
who do our things
that we set out to do
in the mornings
me with my poetry
kip with their programming
puppies with their naps
and cats with their…whatever cats do in the early hours
constantly feeling on a precipice
of the world burning
of my own superstardom
of our own government disintegrating
of my writing something inviting and entrancing
to my own
senses
but i think,
at least for my own cliffs’ edges,
i cannot wait for the feeling of falling —
i need to just
jump
i wish we had more windows in our house
that were accessible to the animals as they are
so they could gaze out
at the outside world
and be entertained
from the comfort and safety of our own home
[but the cat has the upstairs window
accessible from a hop onto a litter box
and a jump onto a dresser
and, of course, a skip through the curtains]
[and the dog has the downstairs window
accessible from the couch she probably shouldn’t jump on
or the other downstairs window
accessible from a lap
she definitely shouldn’t jump on]
[so i suppose all can be/is well]
will i,
once i get back,
be back into
some semblance
of a morning
habit
with these words?
that would be nice
that would be nice
kipventures 