my whole concept of
the day of the week
is gone
is it wednesday?
is it a weekend?
have days ceased to be
and now we’re living off of
vibes alone?
someone help me
be a person
again
my whole concept of
the day of the week
is gone
is it wednesday?
is it a weekend?
have days ceased to be
and now we’re living off of
vibes alone?
someone help me
be a person
again
i just want to hide in the middle of the woods
and make physical art somehow
[really don’t know how, could be painting
could be fiber-art-ing
could be making tiny houses
for my fairy kin to live in]
and forget that the rest of the world exists
but i don’t think i ever could forget
truly
i don’t think i ever could
we have a spider plant
transferred from my father’s domicile in ohio
all the way out to the bronx
and we watered it
and replanted it
and it made two sweet little spider plant babies
i planted one
[still have to cut off the cellulose umbilical tho,]
but the other came in later
and has stayed attached and ready
for just under a year now
and i was contemplating making the effort to
root it
pot it
plant it,
but
we have a bowl of water just under it
[for humidifying purposes]
and it seems some of its tendrils have found it
and now i want to see
if it will slowly make its way over
to that bowl
to soak up the h2o
and grow
new roots
and try to make that
its home
here i was about to do the good thing
the right thing
the thing i’ve been meaning to do
for months and months
and then an experiment falls into my lap
[young me would never believe
how hard i’d fall
for science]
summer is for hot hot sun
and sticky nights
too much sunscreen making not much difference
in the plight of red faces and needing shady spaces
and ice cream melting all over your hands
and lazy moments where the clock seems to stand
exactly still for longer than a second
a minute
an hour
and looking out over some green or body of water
can remind you of a moment of your childhood
or make memories of cartwheels and babies
in a town you’ve never visited
and may never come back to again
but that’s june for you,
that’s what summer is meant to do.
and now i’m outside again
in the sweaty hot humidity of the noonday sun
summer has surely come
and i’m not feeling it in any way
except the heat
how do morning pages feel so much better
with my kip sitting across from me
and a cup of cold coffee in my hand
and a cat perched upon my lap
and a puppy underneath my chair
and everything as it is meant to be?
when did i start liking
consistency?
maybe
it would help
if i were to write poetry
by hand
again
[would it really, tho?]
i work so much better when i have a project
than when i’m left to my own devices
i can’t escape feeling
like i have something i should be doing
but i can’t get off my ass to try, either.
is this a time so say i
love sitting just in the outside
sun shining down but shade keeping up
and puppies beside me continuing to pup
stress
and apprehension
and it not feeling like
an actual opening
and the stories we tell ourselves
about ourselves
when i tell myself these stories
it’s to try to solidify
who i am
because i have no idea
i have no plan
~~~
does one good line
make a poem?
is this my style/my curse?
~~~
my poems are making little to no sense to me
this morning
but i’m still writing them
i’m still dilligently typing
words and phrases as they come
hoping to find some meaning
some
time
soon