this morning’s
morning pages
are going quite
stiltedly
but at least we
are kips
in a kip house
at a kip table
with kip pets
all around us
about to eat some
kip breakfast day
this morning’s
morning pages
are going quite
stiltedly
but at least we
are kips
in a kip house
at a kip table
with kip pets
all around us
about to eat some
kip breakfast day
friday the thirteenth
fridays the thirteenth
friday the thirteenths
fridays the thirteenths
any way you say it
we’re married because of it
[and i’m so happy with it,
even after all these years]
nine years
married
a married-a-versary
[in this world we’re living in]
but
queer joy is resistance
and showing resilience
and we can do it
while also
using our privilege to help others
in our
community
the spouse
and i
have begun evening exercises
with video game kickboxing.
and we love it,
for strength/
for cardio/
for cute couple-y things to do together
in the privacy of our own home
(so no one can judge
our sweaty-red faces
but each other)//
but the cutest thing
about this endeavor
is that, due to game limitations,
lack of working controllers,
and opposite busted shoulders,
kip and i play as one person—
me on the right
kip on the left—
to share in the successes
and failures
of our one digital avatar.
and if that isn’t a perfect example
of disgustingly cute gay love,
i don’t know what is.
listening to lovely music
(modern classical, in case you’re interested)
chatting with my Kip over coffee
about workers and wages
and contemporary conveniences
and whether ‘nobody wants to work anymore’ rhetoric
came out of union slander
or not
a regular morning in this
household
the two kips
unfocused
in two different ways
someone help someone write something
(sometimes you just need to fumble over words
at each other
making the other person laugh
before you come up with the
perfect plan
and go back to writing
immédiatement)
poets
are supposed to be
sentimental
romantical
(or so society says)
their best works coming
from falling
head over heels over head
over and over and over again
with people/with person/with newfound loving
but i count myself a poet
(as strange as it still feels
internally;
but
you can’t do something
every day
for over a year
and not get to take that label)
and i suppose i feel
sentimental
romantical
but without the drama
without the dire feelings
without the falling/
not knowing/
which way is up/
will there be ground when i fall/
will it cushion or strike/
a final blow/
so/
i feel like my poems aren’t the romantical kind
most people expect
but i’ve had nearly ten years with you,
six of those legally wed
(straight out of a time i thought that’d never be a thing)
(planning a wedding when you don’t know which state
will abate
the legality of your love
is an…interesting experience, to say the least)
and we skipped most societal standards,
no first/second/third date rules,
just us, sharing our personal traumas
amid late night kisses
and early morning apple juice;
a first “date” lasting damn near 24 hours
(and only a previous commitment kept it
from just extending
ad inifinitum
as many sapphic first dates go)
a one night stand
turned to talking
and magnetic-felt pulling
until we collapsed our expectations,
shed our ‘no [new] relationship rules’
and went from officially dating
to quietly engaged
in four months
flat
and each month after
i’ve learned from you
and grown with you,
and we’ve had great times
and incredibly hard times,
quiet times
and a few loud times,
but most of the time
it’s simply
comfortable-being-with-you times.
i love our co-[in]dependence
that we’ve come into on our own terms.
and that year [+] where we could only see each other
was such a welcome gift.
and even though nothing is ever promised,
i can see my future more clearly
with you
than i’ve ever seen it before,
and i know
when we’re ghosts
we’ll finally be able to cuddle the way we want
bypassing physical boundaries
and feeling that closeness we yearn for
in every tight tight hug…
we were wed
6 years ago on this day
so i suppose that’s why
today
i’m feeling
sentimental
[and a bit romantical]
but also
sentimentality sneaks up on me
most days
that i get to see you
across the table from me
working on your programming
while i write stanzas of free-form poetry,
or when we’re apart
and i feel the heartbeat vibration
of my phone telling me it’s you texting me
little words of love
or collections of memes sent as a love language all its own
or getting ready for bedtime
in this house we’ve made a home
with our adorable little family
and the comfort of us
just being
[together]
i’m sentimental for you
in a way i never thought i’d be
and i must admit
i’m grateful for it,
my Kip.
connection
in this day and age
of high speed internet
and loudfast cars down the street
and split second decisions
is so rare
but somehow we found each other
and talking with you makes time stop
and we push each other to create a legacy
while still reminding each other to sit in the garden
for as long as the dog will allow us
and our skin on skin contact
is my favorite feeling
in the universe
so let’s continue this
for another five/ten years
because i was just treading water
before you came into my life
2-2-22
[two, two, two two]
and groundhog day
is my delight of fun dates lessened
because i’m no longer in a class where
writing the date is required,
and i no longer have dozens of other students around me
commenting on the weirdness/wonder-ness
of the date
let’s see if i can get that same high
just from spousal conversation;
the delighted “ah!”
akin to the noise [i’d believe] would come
out of the mouth of a baby velociraptor
that just emitted from my blue-haired spouse’s mouth
has made up for
years
without classmates
(and years with)
and how wonderful that i get to live this life
with this Kip
(especially since,
when i was a child in those classrooms,
i was sure,
absolutely, 100% convinced
that i would never be partnered
because my ‘weird’ was too much
for anyone else to love
(and also because, you know, the trauma,
and deals i made with myself
to avoid giving love to another
who may end up leaving me)
and yes, tomorrow isn’t guaranteed
but i now have hundreds of these morning page poems
each encapsulating a memory,
most across a giant, cluttered table,
writing early morning musings
while my spouse does the same
(or programs)
(or peruses the internet)
(or writes emails)
and those mornings turn into days
of silly moments during work hours
stealing a kiss because we missed each other,
and evenings of silly videos
or deep conversations
or delicious meals
or tight cuddles
or cat-hassling
or meandering dog walks
(oftentimes most or all of the above)
and baby HJ never thought they’d encounter
a human being
who could love them so much
warts (and tears) (and weirds) and all.