sleeping downstairs
because the dog [might have]
another uti…
maybe not quite as comfy as our bed
but at least we know
future guests
will be
in good
mattress[es]
sleeping downstairs
because the dog [might have]
another uti…
maybe not quite as comfy as our bed
but at least we know
future guests
will be
in good
mattress[es]
what to write about
what to ponder about
what to mull and meander in the mind?
~~~
[but] do i have a poem
to put
on my site
of poetries?
one from the beginning of todays’ mullings?
one from a day gone by?
no ideea…
what poems are
‘meant’
to come up
to blossom out
to emerge into fruition
full, tangible, edible fruit
of the creatively-writing tree
round your lips around them
digest them
feel them in your heart
but which
ones?
~~~
three short poems?
is that enough to quiet my inner capitalist
constantly telling me i’m not enough
unless i
produce
produce
produce?
rest is a thing
it’s a damn revelation
in a society that only supports
working oneself to the bone
burning the candle at both ends
living fast and
whooshing out
(and/but why the sudden need
desire
pull
to consume as well?
why do i just want to be looking at
vintage trousers
on etsy
and buying more gifts
for my spouse?
…’tis the season?)
Kip asked me yesterday if i ever missed
Brooklyn
and i said i missed some things,
some people,
i miss Carlos and Jacob and the other babies who would
squeal
with fright/delight as they pet the giant teddy bear
that is Louka.
i miss the unofficial mayor of Flatbush (Joy),
and Mike
and about
half
the people in our building
(not that we dislike the other half,
we just never really met them).
i miss all the vegetarian food places;
El Barrio Burritos,
Zen Vegetarian Chinese food,
and the veggie option at Silver Rice,
and that food-truck that stood at the street-corner near the Q
waiting for me to try one of the falafels
(but i never did…)
i miss the woman selling wares and jewelry and incense from her van
every day
(though we still have plenty of Egyptian Musk to get us through)
and i do miss the vibrancy of
Prospect Park
right next door.
but
here
we have new neighbors to get to know,
new food places to explore
(though i am still in search of good plant-based options),
new parks to meander around,
a backyard,
a road Louka isn’t afraid to walk near,
and the best bagels we’ve had in New York
so…i’m pretty sure we’re winning.
(plus, our old home is simply a train ride
or two
away!)
cover up
distract
work through
exercise
fight it
meditate
wait it out
wait it out
wait it out
i know one of these will work
but damn this depression
(like all others before
and all others yet to come)
has me feeling like
Truly
This Time
Nothing
Will Ever
Work.
apparently
it doesn’t fully feel like
‘the holidays’
until there’s some Trans-Siberian Orchestra
blasting out of my
tiny laptop
speakers.
~~~
all my ideas
fled my mind
the moment i sat down
to write
~~~
coffee
coffee
spread through me
awaken my speed,
my creativity,
my me
doing things
before writing things;
terrible for the habit,
but wonderful for the sense of accomplishment,
the sense of awakeness,
the sense of having this day to me…
the thumps from the upstairs,
the slow zombie marching band
i.e.
my spouse’s fidgeting.
no sounds from the house settling
(it’s old; it probably settled long ago)
but instead from our family,
into this house,
settling.
draped in my mom’s old sweater
struggling with the desire
to, instead of doing things all day,
simply watch others do things all day…
(maybe i just need some food first)
((turns out all i needed was food and a nap))
and there’s an ache
for slowing down
this time of year
not really a desire
but a halting
a sudden, unexplainable
working through molasses
everything seems to take twice the energy
and i have less than half of my usual
every winter i feel this way
the expectation to go into hibernation
and the feeling/knowing i won’t/can’t
(and yet, there’s a feeling of growing
of expanding
of changing
of being
but
i’ve felt that so much
how long have i spent inside this chrysalis
and how long do i have to decide
to come out
or stay
and if i stay
will i just
always
and forever
be
goo?)
there’s an ache
in old poems
that i think i’ve lost…
the words falling out of my brain
hold in them a pain
of trying to find some sort of connective
tissue
through
to others in this stupid experiment we call
human
existence
and what happens when everything becomes
happenstance
what becomes of the worlds words once i built
brick by brick
letter by letter
when the better /half/ of me
plays into capitalism
to make our lives a bit
stabler
i read old
lines
older
stanzas
and a common thread appears
a subtle but strong undercurrent
to understand and be understood
(and might i still have that
now?)