i often forget
that the sounds of the birds
can be my morning page music
and the crickets and wind and rain
can replace my podcasts
i no longer use perpetual sound
to block out my own inner voice
[that sounds like some kind of growth]
but i think i have now found myself using any auditory distractions
as literal distractions
from boredom
and i do wish i was more on board
being bored
for creativity’s sake
i don’t actually know what it means
to be
a great writer
a great poet
i’m just sitting here
at my messy dinner table
early in the morning
writing whatever comes to mind
as a way to encourage myself
to deal with the day
that is coming towards me
at breakneck speed
maybe,
when you’re in your ‘fighting a [seemingly] losing war
against fascism with the best tool you have —
kindness’ era
you’ll understand
~~~
i feel like this kind of morning
and this kind of writing
is the reason i started this challenge to begin with
i feel more awake
more aware
more ready to start my day
though i still need to edit and pick and send in the audition
i feel so much more prepared for it
now
~~~
“you look like such a writer!”
of my big sweater
comfy tee
glasses
bun
and coffee in hand
and i do, don’t i?
i do…
not really feeling
the writing right now
but i know i should
and i gotta
and i will and i am and i have been
and i did
just
rocking out
to some ratatat
[instead of writing
these morning pages
like i should be
like i should be]
Kip making music
on an OP-1
on top of a wooden table
with metal bars
supporting
running across to where i rest my foot,
and even through my thick bootie
i can feel the bass rumble through
into my bones
and i love it
finish up these pages
so the bagel can be eaten
so the laundry can be started
so the nap can be taken
so the cat meds can be obtained
so the lyra can be flown on
so the massage can be gotten
and so i can come back home
and be lonely
but not alone
[because these sweet animals
are my greatest buddies
besides my spouse]
in photography, i have no problem
taking tens
of hundreds
of thousands of photos
knowing that somewhere in there,
there will be a great picture —
gorgeous
experimental
framed well
captured beautifully
and composition, exquisite
and even in poetry, mornings of multitudes,
all my poems
multiple
every morning, i know
not every poem will be great
but somewhere in here
there may be something
to write home about
then why oh why do i shy away from
the writing of prose/novels/
or plays?
as if i need my first try to be
so great
otherwise i should just
give
up
?
is it simply that it takes so much longer to write
longer form, than it does to slap dash down a poem
or capture a second or few
in a non-moving image?
so the effort to output
ratio feels more
[risky]
[or am i so scared of something more/or less scary?]
i wish i saw through poet’s eyes
the beauty of the earth at all times —
but instead i see the pain and despair
and try to beautify that
with impassioned speeches/
or try to find the tiniest spec
of lovely
in a day full of pain/
and make the mundane
beautiful again
though it doesn’t really feel like
poetry
to me
without grand sunsets
or allegories of bees and flowers,
i’m over here trying —
making beauty out of angst
and bubble gum
i feel like i need to let myself write
Whatever
in the morning
i’m stuck in the process of
Morning Pages
to be about me
and Morning Poetry
to share with others,
but this habit is For Me By Me
so if i should, say, want to write a little script
or short story where
i have no idea where it’s going,
that’s for me to decide
[plus, i still have so many poems in the past
and i’m sure i’m going to keep writing
personal/postable poetry as i go,
i can take a day or so
to write weird maybe non-poetry type things]
[and perhaps
possibly
maybe one day
i may even
post one]
quick morning pages this morning
perhaps even without posting
until the evening
because we got shit to do
this early morn’
[though i’d love to just be
sewing — apparently that’s my vibe
when the world gets to be
too big and too frightening
just do the physical
helpful labor
you know how to do]
kipventures 