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]
but, should i want to write a book,
what book should i write?
should i re-write my first ever finished novel?
try to make it less about what i needed to hear
[and say]
at that moment in my life, and instead keep
the characters and their journey
and clean it up a bit
for a more
general
consumption?
should i try to finish up the novel i started
recently
with magic at its core
with a [relatively] scientific explanation
should i create my silly idea for a choose your own adventure novel?
should i write the fairy story of a person writing a fairy story
that they need
[and i probably do, too]
should i instead focus on play-writing?
or putting together a collection of
already written poetry?
i think i want to fall into a novel
like i did five years ago…
maybe that first option
really is
the way
to
go
maybe
books
and resistance
will save us
i am a softie
made of choked up feelings
and barely hidden tears
and stories will almost always mist my eyes
but a thank you to a supportive partner
from a trans-masc autistic person
will straight up give me
the weeps
caught up in a book
in a way i haven’t been for a while
[at least not a physical book — we all know
how i feel about the locked tomb series in audiobook form]
but caught up in a way that
i can’t wait for my next subway ride
in a way that
i brought it upstairs before bed
and read
instead of dicking around on my phone
in a way that
i’m probably having nightmares about it
[it’s not that fun of a book,
but boy is it
engaging
like crazy]
so many books
on my reading list,
and each one
i’m so
so
excited
to crack open/
to get lost in the world/
to be absorbed by the story/
to learn facts and histories
and processes
that will make me rethink
just about everything/
to have a topic
to rehash with friends and spouses/
or bring up to folks
i think would love it —
and while i may be a faster reader
than a majority of american adults,
i’m slower than tortoise paced
when compared with
the human i live with/
who shares this house
full of stacks of books
for me to read/
and they’ve read them all
it seems/
so i’m trying not to get discouraged
as i watch the stack
grow
(for they show their love
by buying me
more and more and more
books)
but even with the tower
of my ‘to read’ pile
climbing much higher
than i am tall
(though, as a shorty,
that’s not hard at all)
i love books
so much so
that i can’t help
but still be
so
so so so
excited
to read them all
[eventually]
planning and preparing
are nothing when it comes to
insurance
human fallibility
and the twists of the fates
~~~
i use squiggles
[tildes]
to break the momentum
from one poem
to the next
but only in a batch of three
because formatting in devices these days
is far too variable
for a whole line
so i rely on my
three
little
squiggles
to [hopefully] signify
to both reader and writer
that this poem is over–
re-ready yourself
for a whole new
poem
beginning.
~~~
lost in the depths of a book
so visceral
so immersive
so taking-me-along-for-the-ride
i can’t decide
if this one is more stressful than the first
but all of these ninths
give me some sort of curse
of caring
and staring
long distances as i listen to them
audiobooks carrying me through the star-system
the big house
the river
and i just want to know
what happens next
what happens next
what happens next???
i knew
i know
it’s the beginning of the month
i knew
i know
it’s the second
(because it’s our dog’s 8-month birthday!)
and my brain put these two knowledges together
and wrote at the top of this page
‘august 2’
like we’ll just cycle through
august
continually
and when i told Kip this story
and insinuated
‘forever august’
we both said
‘no thank you!’
~~~
do you ever read a book
and can feel your mind expanding
your brain re-forming
its old opinions
and ways of thinking
into distinctly new ones?
i’m now on my second of two such books
within a month and a half time-frame
and while i will admit
to it
being quite exhausting
it is also invigorating
enlightening
(obviously)
and exciting
and i feel kind of bad
for people who never experience such
fast
observable
growth
of self
~~~
have i been able
to feel stable
to feel calm and at one with the universe
this past week
though i’ve missed
at least half
of morning poetry
because of the book i’m reading
and its meditative quality?
or is my default
when stress arises
simply to externalize calm
for others around me
but recently
that calm has infected the inside as well?
or am i simply able to
deal with stressors more easily
because of healthier coping mechanisms
and weekly chats with a good therapist
and daily low-doses
of a pill
that works?
or maybe all three?
kipventures 