coffee-filled condensation
drips from the tentacle
of my one-of-a-kind
hand-made
oversized
coffee
mug
and i try to rescue it
bringing as much of the drop as i can
from side
to finger
to mouth
but there’s still condensation
from cold fridge
to warm house
dichotomies
exchanging
vibes
and i’m glad i don’t have to worry about coasters for this table
much
hungry
for bagels
for love
for knowledge i’m doing ok
for coffee
for sleep
for puppy kisses and cat nudges
for jalapeño cream cheese
for reassurance that anything in my life
is going the way it
‘should’
for expression
for quiet
for loud
for everything
for nothing
for something
something
something
[damn near starving]
rain pouring/
pounding
on our little roof,
waking me up
long before the sound
of our collective alarms,
but lulling me into
a false sense of security
that i would be able to
fall gently asleep
once more
instead the internet/
and uneven droplets/
and awkward room temperature/
and brightness sneaking in
from a gentle sunrise
outside
kept me up since 5
and now
at 8:30
i’m downing this coffee
just to stay
alive
(but at least the weather is as spooky as our morning music)
i keep reaching for my coffee
[an unthought action]
but i don’t know if i’m ready
to discount the taste of toothpaste
in exchange for the bitter wake-up of coffee
quite
yet
a puppy
eating ice cream
and then the whole container
what a treat
~~~
sometimes i worry
that i’m wasting my writing talents
on publishing in a blog
but then i am reminded
of folks who may have thought
i wasted my acting talents
on community theatre
and who is wasting
and who is benefiting
in either of those situations?
is it simply
elitist?
classist?
or simply the whole vibe of white supremacist culture
to give some places
more standing
than others?
i suppose what i’m saying is
tho i wish more folks would read my words
and i saw more accolades and admissions of quality
(moreso for my own validation/vindication/curiosity)
i’ll continue to place it
here
for anyone to come across it
who may want or need it
(including me)
~~~
late night writing
(ok
again
not really that late)
toasty fireplace
cozy tea
coffee ready to be placed in the fridge
for tomorrow morning
when i’ll write all over again
when i write
i write at a table
but i don’t use the table
(except to hold my morning coffee)
i slide down in my chair
and lift my legs to the other across
and lay my laptop across my lap
cross one foot over the other
and write until my legs or butt falls asleep
or until my terrible posture hurts my back
or until my arms start to get sore
from low-key holding my laptop on my criss-crossed lap
and somehow this works for me
though i can’t help but imagine
a me
where i sit properly
feet fully reaching the floor
posture great
writing without pain sneaking its way in
and wonder if
i’d write
better
longer
if i sat like
a regular person
~~~
the cat gallops upstairs
chasing invisible ghosts
and singing the song of her kin
and at least she can amuse herself like this
for hours on end
while we break our evening’s fast with coffee and poetry and song
the cat’s harmony never quite fitting with whatever we play
but that’s why we love it (and her) so
~~~
i would like to write a letter to my grandmama some time today
because she constantly writes me lovely greetings
‘how are you’s’ and ‘here’s been my day’
and i love them so much.
and i’ve told her,
but i know the reciprocal is just as loved as the appreciation
and she literally said she wonders how we’re doing
so i suppose that’s what is on my agenda
(other than circus)
today
am i digging
writing
this morning
pressure
from me
to me
keeps playing
at least i have
a coffee nearby
and a bagel
soon to be in my belly
and a dog and a spouse and a cat in this house
all by my side
(emotionally at least)
don’t get caught up in the minutia
the tiny details
the what if these have all been said before
the before of writing
when you haven’t even put pen to paper
or finger to keyboard
when you worry what you have to say
isn’t good enough
or big enough
or beautiful enough
or you aren’t any of these things either
just write
snickerdoodles
and pumpkin pecan coffee
and spooky tunes
and writing poems
all
for
breakfast
~~~
i know
that it’s not
the same
but seeing our tiny puppy
in pain
reminds me of the stories
parents tell
of seeing their children
hurt
or sick
for the first time
and how frustrating it feels
to be utterly helpless
to not be able to explain to your baby
‘this cough will pass
you just need to rest’
or
‘i can’t magically make you better
even though i give you
every other
necessity
needed
for life’
wanting to do everything
and being able to do nothing
and those eyes asking for the world
which you’d give
in an instant
if you
only
could
~~~
thank you
Louka
for the treats
with the natural pain relief
so this puppy could get excited
about them
instead of concentrating on
her hurt leg
and helping her
sleep
some pain
away
i think it’s so funny
when people are funny
about their dog’s gender
the dog
doesn’t care
only you care
only you
~~~
but maybe that’s the source
right?
it doesn’t matter what the misgendered person’s gender is
it doesn’t matter how they feel at all
it’s all about the
person
in power—
the parent
or owner
or law maker
am i right?
~~~
experimentation
with imperfection
with writing
without rewriting
with whimsy
and morning brain
and coffee-less veins
and only a little bit
of contemplation
before composition
before posting
again
interesting choice
in Morning Poetry tactics:
the internet-perusal,
the procrastination by other necessary tasks,
the avoidance—
but also the placement/
routine/
you can’t get out of this one
just by watching your animals
interact,
or taking multiple breaks
inside this very poem
to drink half your coffee
and listen to the music,
the poetry will come
whether or not you want it
(but you want it—
otherwise
why
would you have made this challenge
and just kept on
challenging
yourself
month by month
week by week
day by
day
?)
kipventures 