my mind fills with stories
my eyes close and see words
language was always about translation
from thoughts to forms others understood
but here in this moment
when opportunity meets momentum
only morning pages
will ever
get done
~~~
but is that
so bad
a thing?
~~~
i know i could write prose in poetry
i know i could tell a story esoterically
but my words still only seem fit
to express the feelings
in my own life
how could i tell another’s?
capitalism
ruining even the most productive
of mornings
~~~
frustrated
distracted
hungry
but not yet ready
what a morning
~~~
banal tasks
take
less mental energy
but
when a sudden need
for that focus arrives
it’s quite jarring
i know the morning
is here for me
to delve into my
psychology
and think through things
as they may or may not be
but right now it feels
more like a chore
more like a bore
score none and no more
the act of writing
of poetizing
less than appetizing
and i can’t help but feel
like a
fraud
~~~
one more poem
one more verse
simply to make me feel
like i didn’t just waste
an entire block of my morn
writing stupid rhyming poetry
for nothing
for naught
for no one but me
(that’s the only person
actually
for whom this
poetry)
~~~
and writing
as me
as my own self
is so odd
because i’ve spent so much of my life
not knowing
(or straight up hiding)
who i truly was
that i’m uncertain
i’d even know
for sure
now
the not so great part
of having a solid plan
of combining your Morning Experimentations
into
a National Novel Writing Month Experiment
is that
once you combine the collective trauma
of living through a global pandemic
(and the subsequent failures of government and humanity)
with the fact that you wrote every morning
your pain and hopes and losses thereof
and with
the emotional toll of writing poetry
which you do
every morning now
is that
now
you don’t necessarily want to write
your Morning
Poetry
(because you have just
catharted
all over the computer screen
about a situation
we are still
very much
in)
a break
a gap
for multiple days
but
i’m not worried
in the way
i have been
because i know
i’m here
and i have things to say
no matter
what
~~~
re-writing history
is the way i deal with
days i couldn’t deal with
the morning pages
or mid-afternoon meditation
or evening ponderings…
simply take the time machine
of your blogging schedule
and post
in the past
(it’s surprisingly
easy)
~~~
(any more to say?)
[anything else to think?]
{or is writing
still coming back
into focus
after a few
days?}
not feeling
anything
(writing
listing
poetry-ing)
was i this
lost
this time
last
year?
~~~
trying
to writing
with songs with words
we’ll see how this goes
~~~
was music all i needed
for me to feel like
this is a real morning???
is this all i am
now?
an evening-poem-writing
Kip?
will i ever poem again in the morning
light?
i
don’t
wanna
do it
i don’t
want
to morning pages
i don’t
want to write
this morning
i don’t
want to be forced
or force myself to be
creative
fake inspiring
inspired
by the cold outside
(or inside for that matter)
by my sleepy eyes
or exhausted brain
or heart that has yet to gain
any sort of strength
(they say the heart is a muscle
but how do you exercise it
to be more open
more loving
more child-like
more you?)
i
don’t
wanna do
anything
so instead
i’m writing
about the feeling
and hoping
you’ll understand
too
at least
i’m back
to my regularly scheduled
Morning
Poetry
[as if it’s been the habit
that has broken the self
rather than
the other way
‘round]
i think it’s so funny
when people are funny
about their dog’s gender
the dog
doesn’t care
only you care
only you
~~~
but maybe that’s the source
right?
it doesn’t matter what the misgendered person’s gender is
it doesn’t matter how they feel at all
it’s all about the
person
in power—
the parent
or owner
or law maker
am i right?
~~~
experimentation
with imperfection
with writing
without rewriting
with whimsy
and morning brain
and coffee-less veins
and only a little bit
of contemplation
before composition
before posting
again
kipventures 