the end
of an era
Joann’s was synonymous with
creativity
and even in these last few weeks and months
of craziness and chaos,
bankruptcy and shut-down,
final sales and equipment liquidation,
the workers still find ways to connect
and laugh
and breathe
just writing
quick morning words
and then back to working
on the thing i should have started
a month ago
but alas
the maybeHD
and procrastinatory tendencies
make it so
in this week
before the event
this is when my creativity
actually explodes
quiet the mind
just enough to hear the important thoughts/
the creative thoughts/
the thoughts that are often drowned out
by anxiety rambling
and existential depression blues
there may be creative moments
inside those diatribes
but i’ve heard enough of them to know —
it’s getting past them
that the true me
lies
[in truth]
trying to writing
to finish the thinking
to begin the day
and continuing
and continuing
starting
from finishing
from ending —
a beginning
gibberish poems
can become
gibberish songs
which may be
exactly what i need to do
in order to stop me
from overanalyzing
and overjudging
and overscrutinizing
my own creativity
creativity streams from me
from my fingertips to a computer screen
from my acting choices to an audience’s eyes
from my body on a circus apparatus
and i feel
almost
creative
i don’t actually know what it means
to be
a great writer
a great poet
i’m just sitting here
at my messy dinner table
early in the morning
writing whatever comes to mind
as a way to encourage myself
to deal with the day
that is coming towards me
at breakneck speed
maybe,
when you’re in your ‘fighting a [seemingly] losing war
against fascism with the best tool you have —
kindness’ era
you’ll understand
~~~
i feel like this kind of morning
and this kind of writing
is the reason i started this challenge to begin with
i feel more awake
more aware
more ready to start my day
though i still need to edit and pick and send in the audition
i feel so much more prepared for it
now
~~~
“you look like such a writer!”
of my big sweater
comfy tee
glasses
bun
and coffee in hand
and i do, don’t i?
i do…
creation mixes magic
with science
and i think you’ll find
we’re all adept
at both
[if we just believe]
in photography, i have no problem
taking tens
of hundreds
of thousands of photos
knowing that somewhere in there,
there will be a great picture —
gorgeous
experimental
framed well
captured beautifully
and composition, exquisite
and even in poetry, mornings of multitudes,
all my poems
multiple
every morning, i know
not every poem will be great
but somewhere in here
there may be something
to write home about
then why oh why do i shy away from
the writing of prose/novels/
or plays?
as if i need my first try to be
so great
otherwise i should just
give
up
?
is it simply that it takes so much longer to write
longer form, than it does to slap dash down a poem
or capture a second or few
in a non-moving image?
so the effort to output
ratio feels more
[risky]
[or am i so scared of something more/or less scary?]
one of the best poems i ever read
was a poem that insisted
it was not
a poem
and if that’s not a metaphor for something
then i’m not some kind of a poet
kipventures 