how come i am so hyper-aware
of every moment in time
and how they will become memories
in the next moment
so much so that, even trying to experience them, i am often thinking
fifteen minutes[at least] into the future
i feel like i was barely in the moment
of looking forward to this trip
and only in it
for half a second
and now i’m back
and looking back on
experiences i know took time to have
but now they live only in my
memory
home
decompressing
[depressing]
but enjoying
the thunderstorm
that has welcomed us
home
i never, ever thought i would identify
so strongly with a place
but my heart
leaps
at being called “a New Yorker”
and i can’t help but write
countless poems about
the place
and the people
and the identity
and my heart beats harder
and my anxiety lulls softer
when anywhere that reminds me
of my chosen home
[would i still feel like a New Yorker
if we fled to Paris
for safety?]
while we didn’t fall in love with Lisbon
like we thought we might
we definitely fell in love with Europe
and the fact that people here
seem to be a little bit more functional/
the democracies around here
definitely are more functional
than the shitshow we left
and are now approaching back
and Paris
the surprise contender
from least likely
to most
in our future endeavors
[is it just that we fall in love with
anything
that reminds us of New York?]
[is that the moral of this whole experience?]
the pounding hearts
of palpitations
of stressors
or wondering if we’ll get back into our country of origin
ok
or
if we even want to
i can see why
people love this tree
and personify [her] to the point of
pronouns
she is something truly
living
and being,
imposing
and consoling
there is something
here
underneath her
in her shade
in her presence
that i find
indescribable
but inscrutably
here
i breathe her in
and hope she knows
all the love i bring
with me
here
to her
i understood very little Greek
in Greece
and a fair amount of French
in France
but the Spanish sounds so fast
in Spain
and Portuguese, to my ears, is nearly Russian
in Portugal
i keep just wanting to speak in French
because it’s the only language i’ve been able to even start to grasp
but most folks here understand English fine
[i just don’t actually want to be associated
with that damn country
of mine]
merit
find it
a way out
a way down
turning at each sharp angle
careening down steep, cobblestone hills
bump
bump
bump
veer
and bump
historical and exciting
and mundane as any day
the tram service
this is a trip of
a little bit flying by the seat of our pants
a little bit months and months of planning
and a frothy topping of
walking
everywhere
art
and artists
are the only things making me
hopeful
right now
[perhaps my art
could bring hope
to someone, somewhere]
kipventures 