what is this
existential nihilism that gossip gives me?
like the minute i’m not
part of the story
and instead invested in the lives of others
my own becomes ghosted
to the point of fading
out from the prime material plane
what use is my spirit
if the flame of my life
heats no one else’s hands?
[these are some silly metaphors
and even sillier phrasing for
a moment today when i experienced
true surprise at my own dealing]
the poetry isn’t flowing this morning —
it’s dripping
coagulating and spurting and leaking
that is to say
it’s still coming
just in fits and starts
and stops and lags and
drags my whole sense of self
along with it, whether it’s
coming or not
and all i can do
is try
to stay on for the whole
ride
write what you know
and then write it a little farther away
using metaphor
or simile
or narrative tactics
that make it seem
like it may not be about your life
at least not completely
but we all know
we all know
every writer carries hundreds
if not thousands
if not millions or billions or trillions of
selves
with them at all times
[or is that just every human
as we live and grow and change and morph
into each of our
many
many
many
final forms]
it always feels so strange to me
when i can acutely feel the effects of
whatever is waking me up
actively waking me up
whether it’s writing poetry
or drinking coffee
or water
just recognizing my body and brain
slowly opening up
and letting the day in
like a flower in the sunshine
[we are all far more nature
than we
realize]
the creativity is bubbling up
boiling and broiling
until a mess ends up over the sides of the pot
roiling down the sides
and onto the stove itself
and the question is:
was the creative endeavor one that would
put the flame that ignited the creative spark
out
or
is it one that is incendiary and will
continue to burn
until it consumes
the whole house?
pondering poetry
pensively pensating in poetical form
what is poetry if not
words hanging out on a jungle gym
just waiting for their moment
to show off
“seat must be occupied
during takeoff and landing”
it feels like there should be
a metaphor
in there
somewhere
but i can’t seem
to find any
allegories
currently
the days speed by
i get a glance
a flip of a flipbook
but the first few establishing shots
as i got the hang of it
went so much slower —
now they speed by
and i can’t tell if i’m missing a page
or a day
as the image on them
becomes something more than its individual parts
the still photos become a movie
the day to day becomes
a life
and i don’t like it
take me back to the days
when i could study each aspect
forever
and never knew what would happen
when it all flowed
freely
[uncontrollably]
birds
swooping down in
the rain
puppies
pawing at the floor
for attention
and the outside
and the inside
always have some parallels
but it’s the liminal spaces in-between
where i find my own comfort
i
often listen to podcasts
[more often than not]
and some of them i cannot stand
until and unless
they are sped
up
up
and away i run, blocking out my own thoughts
with speeds set to
increase
my own
anxieties
but when i slow down
and try
[i do try]
to listen at a show’s natural pace,
i find my heart pounding
waiting
each millisecond
for the next sound to be heard
like my own brain and body
accrue more anxiety
from normalness
and anticipation
than from the sped-up versions
of life
so
do i live in the moments
between moments
where time seems to extend
ad-infinitum
and unbearably so,
or do i continue to block out intuitions
and worry that my life
is speeding past my eyes
at an unrecognizable rate?
i don’t know
i don’t know
kipventures 