the pain in my arm
has never harmed me
in the air
this bothersome little
strain
on the tendon
is only ever annoying
when writing
or scrolling
or holding
or driving
it never affects me while flying
which is nice
but
it does make me think that
my bod just wants to be a circus performer
and nothing else
nothing
“normal”
at least
windshield wipers
swipe the gentle drizzle
away from my sight
as i try to listen
and hear
and absorb
and accept
this love coming at me from the passenger side
but it’s hard when your own brain gives you ways
to always counter with absurd logic
anything better than
utter self-hatred
but i’m trying
i’m trying
i’m trying
writing my feelings away
while trying not to feel them
will never work,
but i have to drive hours and hours and hours today
maybe even through the rain
and it’ll be dangerous to do that with
tears in my eyes as well,
so i’ll try to express what i can express
and leave the true unpacking and analyzing
and feeling
for another day.
traveling
and writing
only really works
when you’re not the one
driving
i wish
i could see
through my glasses
i wish
they weren’t smudged
with fingerprints
and face oils
and life
i wish
i wasn’t so hungry
i couldn’t concentrate
and so sleepy
i’m expecting to snuggle
into the soft body of this poem
and relax until it’s time to drive
on home
[again]
flash of a memory
(why is it almost always driving)
rocky river to lakewood
bridge over the
metroparks valley
the color salmon pink
(was it a house?
an apartment building?
the color of the sky in sunset?)
riding along
early lessons
late hangouts
always right on time for rehearsals
the flat expanse of northeastern ohio
spreading a suburb out in front of my eyes
somehow gorgeous in its
midwestern gothic/
abandoning the american dream/
passenger seat
then driving, driving, driving
knowing a portion of that street so well–
but the memory starts farther back
a path i only drove a
handful of times
farther back
farther back
seeing the road i took
seeing the memories out in front
seeing to the side where my grandmother survived
(i wish i had asked her more questions about her life)
why are my memories
still so full of
other
memories?
also
when driving
takes the joy
out of the date of birth
(but time is a mortal construction,
both you and your spouse agree);
celebrating
the next day
is perfectly acceptable
(and even encouraged)
driving
on one’s birthday
(even when one generally enjoys driving)
is a bit of a let-down…
but at least
one can come home
to one’s loud and weird cat
and an ice cream cake for late evening
and general feelings of belonging
being back
in
new york city.
[home]
more driving
more music
more memories
more food
more family
[more time?]
(((…less internet)))
road rage
comes from
feeling safe
and secure
and invincible
in your little metal box
but actually
you never know
who you’re honking at
so maybe
just maybe
just
chill.
(of course, in New York City, all bets are off,
because everyone honks at everyone
and no one really takes it as rage any more
it’s more just part of the general soundscape
of the city.
so…
)
kipventures 