a wave of a big sad
is threatening to crash down
upon me
and i’m just standing
here on the beach
waiting
waving back
not prepared
but still aware
it’ll hit
and then i may be
pulled
away
from the safety of the shore
[but i do love oceans
and maybe there’s something there
to explore?]
i’m writing so many words today
figuring things out in my brain i
didn’t know i needed figuring out
through poetry
and allegory
and just straight up facts
the coffee has hit the tastebuds
but i’ve written so fast
i think it hasn’t yet hit the bloodstream
or brain
quite yet
i didn’t know i didn’t know i didn’t know
i needed to process these particular things
but that’s why morning page poetry is so useful:
sometimes you sit down to write
and you just write about how much you’re
not writing
and sometimes you sit down to write
and discover secrets that you had hidden
from even
yourself
now to process the processing…
i wish i could think of all the words i can’t think of right now
i wish i could recall all the vocabulary that’s in my head
but they’re stuck behind sticky mind-doors
where the mental wood has warped over the years of trauma
and protecting myself against trauma
the maze in my mind
simply to find
a fucking synonym
is atrocious
[i measure out how detrimental it is to the poem
if i should sit and think, and perhaps get lost in my own thoughts
or stop and look it up on the internet, and thereby lose the spell i cast
on my own poetry being sans-internet-influence,
or ask my kip
or set a reminder to go back and check
at a later time…
usually i set a reminder in the way of brackets around one word
and hope i can find the exact alternate
i thought i could think of
at the time of writing]
beautiful words
about ugly things
i wish i could write like my thoughts were cursive
calligraphy
a cartography of trauma set in gorgeous handwriting
but i’m a type-writer
printed and sure
un-erasable blank ink holding
my most ephemeral thoughts
not beautifully tragic
but solidly uncertain words
in the most permanent of ways of writings
we use today
[but nothing will survive the heat death of dominicus
right?]
it’s always so fascinating to me
watching my poetry
slide from one subject matter
[an introductory topic, if you will]
into the underlying
what-it’s-really-about
as if my conscious brain
*almost* gets it
but *always* needs to let the
subconscious brain take over
to get to the heart of the matter
[and if i try to control too much —
with form or function or rhyme or
look — the underlying message can’t come out;
or still does, but ruins whatever basis i had
laid out] and this pattern, of
almost-but-not-quite-knowing what my poetry will really
be containing, is like watching a movie of your own life
in front of you — you know what it was like behind your eyes
but from this third-person vantage, it’s all a little off
a little wild
a little unsettling in its
potential comfort,
but still entertaining
because of the new
perspective
that’s what my morning poetry is like
for me, most
mornings
living in one world
or another
splitting my focus
when one takes over
the other needs to take a backseat
and sometimes
because of how much i love each thing
a backseat feels like
it fell off the vehicle
entirely
but i turn around
and pick it back up
and gently place it
front seat and center again in my focus
until the split needs to happen once more
it’s hard loving so many things
so many activities
so many lives
[but it’s only ever hard on the focus needed
the actual amount of love i have is
absolutely limitless]
write
and write
and write and write and write
until you’ve exorcised all the demons
inside your own mind
the sinus pressure
building behind my eyes
feels fizzy
like a soda pop
lightly shaken
just waiting
to gently explode
it’s already
march
but january and february seemed to take
forever
will the rest of this year
fly
by
or will it stretch and strain
as our cheeto in chief
brags about wars
and killing
whomever he pleases
i know i know i know
in just a few years
this will all have seemed
like it happened in the blink of an eye
but living in it
is dunking one’s head in molasses
and expecting
to blink
and breathe
and see
normally
if you follow the dancing sheet of snow
as it leaps up from its tree branch
and swirls down below
each individual snowflake
becomes part of something
larger
and more whole
and as it settles on the ground
it joins a community there as well
some staying
some picking up and dancing more
elsewhere
and on and on and on it goes
one flake
one wind
many options
infinite paths
but always
somehow
together
with others
when needed
the metaphor for community is there
it needs some refining
some shaping and sculpting
[like most communities do, i’d wager],
but it’s hard to see any independent entity
once you realize
what community truly means
to the survival
of anyone
or anything.
kipventures 