constitutional protections
to life
liberty
and the pursuit of happiness
are being stripped away to reveal
all we ever had
was the right to make money
for others
~~~
i’m all for corpse rights
but
when a dead person has more
bodily autonomy
than 50% of living citizens
something seems
off
~~~
although
with gun rights the way
they are
we might be dead soon anyway
so…
…yay upcoming rights?
did the work
did the thing
should i feel accomplished?
here’s the rub:
i know it could have gone better
(i know it could have gone worse)
but
it has become part of me
part of my mornings
(alongside my coffee)
and yeah, i guess i’ve learned a little
about myself
my words
my process(es)
my struggle-busses
(though i still feel so far away from having any of those
actually/totally ‘figured out’)
but does it have to mean anything?
does there have to be a large lesson learned
do our lives ever truly have
a beginning/middle/end
(except
birth/
the entirety of our lives/
death)
?
so,
i tell myself
from myself
to myself,
stop trying to make a neat story
where life just is
(that’s the fun thing about life:
it doesn’t get tied in a nice bow
at the end of every chapter;
it seeps
and bleeds
into every part of you;
your childhood
didn’t just cut off when you turned teen,
your teen-self didn’t stop teen-ing
when you entered college,
and with every passing year
you grow
but you can’t just let go
of who you once were,
you carry those stories
those strengths and faults
those likes and dislikes
those selves
with you
always,
they are part of what helped you get here;
you can’t have leaves without the branches,
and you can’t have branches without the trunk,
and you certainly can’t have a trunk without the roots
(and, if we’re comparing ourselves to trees now,
we might as well commit
and talk about how,
underneath,
supporting the roots themselves,
are mycelial networks
helping with nutrients
and
connecting trees to each other
and
living symbiotically,
so community
is the lesson learned there:
not even trees
stand solely alone)
)
so
i suppose
what i/this poem
are saying
is
this experiment might continue on for another year
or another five
or stop abruptly
just before another year mark
or i might not poem tomorrow
the point
is that i did it
i proved to myself
that i could do it
(though, with my stubbornness, i didn’t have too much doubt)
and i’ve written
(at least) one poem
every
single
day
for a year
and posted them
for the internet to see
and that’s all that matters
(right now, at least)
i am amazed
at this body i was gifted
i am enraged
at this body that was
forced upon me;
i never gave my consent
to be born to this
but what a miracle
is life
is it not?
i’m a writer who draws
and an actor who overthinks
and a spouse with a cat and a dog
and all i really want
is to create some beauty
through this slog
called ‘life’
i [will i ever?] never do anything with my
‘Big Poems’
and i have so dubbed them because
they are (for lack of a better word)
Big™
there are many words,
the concepts are huge,
the concepts are also, often, risky
(as in, i’m leading with an opinion
or a statement
that has the potential
to anger
a whole group of
[already very angry]
people.
and as a bit of a pacifist,
that concept is terrifying
(both from a my-own-safety
and from a my-own-philosophy
kind of way)
but as a bit of a radical
anti-capitalist
anti-patriarchal
and 100% anti white supremacy
-ist
i should feel comfortable
confident
to speak my own truth
knowing
that to uphold life
above profit
in all things
is righteous
not wrongteous
it’s just that…
the other side is so loud
and my ears already hurt
from closing them to my own personal truths for so long
(but that’s another subject
for another poem
for another day)
today we are wondering
if i’ll ever bring those Big Poems out from my document
share them with the ten or so readers that ever traverse past this page
and even if i get up the gumption
what then?
they are saved and stuck for another reason,
and that reason:
they still feel unfinished.
but, as i think i’ve written before,
i’m bad at finishing things
i’m bad at conceptualizing endings
i’m bad at wrapping things up…
(but maybe that’s what the Big Poems need…
big ideas don’t necessarily have a nice ending
wrapped up in a beautiful bow,
so…
)
what to write
in these morning pages poetries
the cuffs on my sleeves are long
and tight
and the tightness in my chest is just a little bit looser
today
but i don’t wanna jinx it
(i never want to jinx it)
because we’re still waiting to hear back
and i’m still trying to get over my own shit in my own head
and the thread of this poem is slowly fraying
and i’m praying
(though i never pray)
(so much so that i have to look up whether it’s ‘prey’ or ‘pray’)
that someday i’m able to ride this roller coaster of life
inside one of the cars
instead of fishtailing off the last contraption
caught
and desperately catching
at
anything that passes me by
but it’s wizzing past too fast
and i can’t seem to grasp
anything for long enough to remember it by
so my memory is filled with blurry images
and the feeling in my stomach as we rise and free-fall and whip around corners and tumble and zoom and loop-the-loop and…
and…
and the longer i think about this
the more i realize
roller coaster as life is a cliché for a reason
the slow beginning
each year clicking by
taking an eternity
waiting for something to actually start
childhood
the track
set straight
controlled
and just when you think you have your shit figured out
just when you think you’re ready for the freedom
the track continues to box you in
but the pace is uncontrollable
and yes there are moments throughout
that aren’t quite as fast
but none of them are ever as slow
as the beginning
(except, maybe, the end)
and i’m trying not to think that i’ve discovered something crazy new,
that i’ve come upon flame for the first time
that i’m inventing the wheel
or anything like that
but it sure makes sense
and maybe those two cents on life
will help my brain sense of why i constantly feel so out of control
i need to control other parts of my being
with such a tight fist.
sudden sillies
pop as classical radio
chatting with the spouse
singing at the spouse
dancing at the spouse
after writing/editing/posting so many things
dealing with depression
how can my goofiness
still show itself
this fiercely?
i first touched a lyra
(in order to play inside)
in 2010
and for six years
i didn’t touch one again
but from January 2016
to March 2020
i never stayed away more than three weeks
it’s been 6 and a half months
it’s been 6 months
two weeks
three days
since i last touched a lyra
(since i last touched any circus apparatus)
(since i last knew what it was like to fly)
and i am not expecting a lot
from tomorrow
i know my muscles have weakened
my flexibility has lessened
my (un)calloused hands can’t hold myself up
nearly as long as
once they did
i am not expecting much
because the world is still uncertain
and a virus is still ‘at loose’
and i know anything, absolutely anything
could happen
but i hope i get to remember what it felt like to fly
to be truly free
truly in the moment
(to enjoy being alive)
and i hope
for one hour
i can fully experience that all
again
and maybe plan for
a next time.
kipventures 