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
poetry
[for me]
is simply raining down
haphazard hail
at whatever can capture my words
and showing off this bouquet
of symbols making meaning of emotional existence
and asking if anyone at all enjoys
the fragrance
[and/or the mixed metaphors]
kipventures 