sink deep into the couch
close your eyes while you write
and maybe, just maybe,
something beautiful will come to you
something beautiful will osmosis into you
something beautiful will meditate into your mind
from the outside
and make its way through
closed eyes
and open fingertips
to the keys on your keyboard
and, magically, digitally, technologically
appear on your [now no longer blank] computer screen
that’s how poetry works, right?
continuing
on
a trajectory;
a reconstruction?
a fun date deduction:
[2/22/22]?
a pondering of poetry and pain?
the contemplations i create
co-habitate in my brain
until the day
they’re ready
to be
set free…
…and even then, they never truly leave home;
they come back and visit
for dinners,
for vacations,
for mid-week excursions,
for time away from their new habitudes
and i conclude
that i’m never truly concluded
with any sort of
meditation
which is good?
i guess?
kipventures 