writing about things
about losing
and possibly gaining
[about gaming the system
that seems incapable of collapsing
without dire consequences]
about consequential
and inconsequential
choices
for our own choices
will always always always bring
something
to our own lives
but in the grand schemes of planets and universes and stars
what is one
human’s
mistake
[what is one species’
constant
blunder?]
how high would you fly
knowing you must, eventually, fall?
could you resist the sirens’ call
convincing your flawed human brain
you might just resist it all?
could you throw yourself, knowingly, into the sky
just to see what the view is like up there
just to prove yourself mighty
for a moment?
or could you stay down on the ground
safe
but knowing you’d never know what the clouds taste like?
just past my house
on the dead-end street it lies upon
is a strange sort of
Wishing Well
and, well, it never grants wishes
instead it grants
Fears
but the nice thing is
most of our fears
are far worse in our heads
than they ever are
in real
life
so my fear of spiders
erupted
but didn’t bury me
as i’d assumed it would
and my little brother’s fear of losing his favorite toy
of course happened by him
dropping it in
but it was the late nineties by then
and his tonka truck was available
at any toys r us
and it “magically reappeared”
the next
morning
and my friend’s fear of
losing her grandfather
of course happened the minute she touched
the side of the well
but she also got to say goodbye to his spirit
which stopped by
at that very spot
so
so
well
i guess
what i’m trying to say is…
now that my fear is societal collapse
and ultimate armageddon,
but i also can’t see how we’ll get out of this
very rough point in history
without it
i’ve been thinking about that
Fearing Well
a lot
and wondering
if it’s still just past my parents’ old house
on that dead end street
and if believing in the magic of the object is enough
to cancel out the fact that
this fear is now
a wish
as well
perhaps you wake up one day
and the sky is purple instead of blue
still the same brightness — no sunrise or sunset vibes
making the change, though many things may adjust
from your point of view — like are you near a body of water?
look at it, it’ll reflect the sky, and you’ll realize
in that moment, that the ocean is not, in fact, blue,
or even any color on its own,
but a simple showing back of
the sky above it
but
no one else remarks on the suddenness of the purple in the sky
and when you see a game show with simple questions
or shadow your niece’s kindergarten class
the correct answer to “what color is the sky”
is “purple!” every time
so what now?
do you ask someone about it?
do you try to sleep it off?
do you check your own kindergarten worksheets
dug up and pulled down from your parents’ house’s attic?
there, in your own handwriting, is “purple”
and even poems you wrote ages ago
where you rhymed “blue” with “true” at the end of a stanza
put forth the same rhyme scheme, but with purple in the middle
“the sky’s purple hue/makes my heart beat true”
and it works
better than
“blue”
do you take this to your therapist
crossing your fingers behind your body
that it won’t be enough to get you committed
again?
how long has your reality strayed from everyone else’s?
is everyone else under an illusion now?
were you picking up nonreality for twenty-seven years?
why
why
why
is this happening?
to you?
you wait
and perhaps
you never get an answer…
spectacular
spectacle
and spectacles help us all
see
wonders
in our own
and each others’
eyes
for once
for twice
for as many times
as we might find a rhyme
and/or reason
to climb
and explore
and discover
and become
one
with some sort of
happiness
[if we can
if we can]
~~~
there’s still a bit of
misalignment
when it comes to
my own self
and my poet self
and i cannot tell if that’s because
i don’t perform my own poetry enough
that it becomes as second nature as
acting
or aerial
or simply listening
but my own poetry
i have to remind myself
‘i made this
and it isn’t
half
bad’
~~~
or perhaps it’s because
i’m all self-taught
and i’m just flying by
the seat of my pants
and i can’t totally tell
what works and what’s a fail
except that
some poems flow like water
and some drip like sludge
and every now and then
i find a rhyme that tastes as good as it sounds
but i don’t know how i found any of that
it just happens
through trial and error
every
single
time
like i’m always starting
from one
we have a spider plant
transferred from my father’s domicile in ohio
all the way out to the bronx
and we watered it
and replanted it
and it made two sweet little spider plant babies
i planted one
[still have to cut off the cellulose umbilical tho,]
but the other came in later
and has stayed attached and ready
for just under a year now
and i was contemplating making the effort to
root it
pot it
plant it,
but
we have a bowl of water just under it
[for humidifying purposes]
and it seems some of its tendrils have found it
and now i want to see
if it will slowly make its way over
to that bowl
to soak up the h2o
and grow
new roots
and try to make that
its home
here i was about to do the good thing
the right thing
the thing i’ve been meaning to do
for months and months
and then an experiment falls into my lap
[young me would never believe
how hard i’d fall
for science]
i’m already well past 300 words
and i’ve gotten such good work out
for me
but not for anybody
else
maybe i should start taking old poems
and redoing them/
adjusting and rewriting
for use in a book of some kind?
i’ve now written
more than one poem every single day
for over three years now
officially 1,134 days
according to this calculator i just found
on the interwebs
let’s calculate a bit more:
i know i usually write at least three poems —
though sometimes there’s a lot more/
but sometimes i’ve skipped days to come back later
and use an unpublished poem from a previous writing session —
let’s just say it averages out to three a day
[i know this will be a low estimate]
that makes, at least 3,402 poems
[probably closer to 6,000 if we’re being honest]
[i wonder if it would be worth it
to go back and actually count
how many poems happened each day]
[that would be wild
to say
the least]
and all of this look back/calculation has helped none of the
‘i have no poem to post today’
issue…
i suppose i could post this word soup,
give the internet the knowledge
that while i post one to three poems daily
on that site, the need to write
is overwhelming sometimes,
and sometimes i just gotta write and write and write
and i guess i’ve written somewhere between 3 and 6 thousand poems
[honestly probably even more]
since i started this experiment
in april of 2021
[also, i thought it would be an
experiment that would last me a year
and here
i am…]
sitting here
thinking of neurodivergence
thinking of
anxiety and depression
thinking of
acting from such a young age
thinking of
diagnoses and non
thinking of
societal standards
thinking of
pressure and constructs
thinking of
freedom from expectations and all that
~~~
experiment
think of words not often written
ponder places and things alike
you rarely ever write about
and maybe
just maybe
your poetry can have fresh(er)
life
~~~
to write about what i’m feeling:
a little bit of pain
a lot of hunger
love for my dog and for my kip
(and begrudging love for our
hassle cat)
the cold of the ice pack
the water flowing from esophagus
to stomach
and on
the tap of my elevated leg
toe against air
to the tempo of the music
yawns
tiredness
worry about armpit stinkiness
this whisker poking out from my chin
and an extreme itchiness on my scalp, under my braid
my teeth clenched together
(relax, relax, relax)
the taste of this blueberry coffee
and a little bit more centered
than when i started this poem
{unknown}
what i want to write
{unknown}
what i want with my life
{unknown}
what decision to make from
a life
rife
with greatness
and gloom,
elation
and existential dread…
speak what my mind
wanders to wonder
about day to day,
week to week,
(second to second,
why am i always second in my actions
but the only thing on my mind?)
{experiment
unknown
until
something makes sense}
kipventures 