making new
traditions
making old traditions
happier
making things work
in this snow-less escape
that is our regular every day life
in new york city
~~~
down the coffee
slip off to the holiday market
grab cider/
wine/
juice/
anything
to make a mulled wine
happen
and also some stickers
and also some goofy goofs
and also
some
potential
presents
for a new
present moment
~~~
silly,
i
already
know
as the numbers steadily approach
24
the day in december i used to see your face
every year
[along with others
along with others]
my heart hiccups
as i think about seeing you
and remembering i can’t,
not in its living form anymore
it’s a lost loss
one from far away
but so closely held in both of our hearts
you wrote so many letters
to so many people
but you always managed to write to me
and make me feel like i was the only one
i love you i loved you i love you
[this poem has no end
because grief
goes on and on]
cold face
cold hands
cold toes
cold neck
cold arms
cold legs
cold ears
cold everything
when will it all
become spring?
[a poem for the first full day of winter]
it’s that time of year
where the only dopamine is from the bright decorative lights after the sun sets at 4
and that of the morning sun hitting the frost just so
as i shiver in my own home
[no matter what the heat is set to]
and i can’t help but wish for the brighter days/the warmer ways
that summer months send us
and annoy us
and i would much rather be complaining of too much heat
than even a little bit of cold —
my muscles tighten up in winter,
my whole body stops moving smoothly,
and i can’t can’t cannot get happy
no matter what i do
[i can’t even get into
writing poetry in
the morningtime]
[but at least it gets better from here on out, right?]
wild
wild
wild
what a little sleep
[and by little
i mean
the normal amount
a human needs]
will do you
[me]
i want something new
something more
than what i have now
or what i had before
but i don’t know in what way
i just know there’s no way
i can do this day-to-day
without at least a teensy bit of
variety
~~~
man, my writing is just
not slapping like it
usually does
this morning
we all have off days
in every aspect of our lives
but why can’t i just decide
when my off days will collide with me?
[that wouldn’t bring nearly as much
self-education as i need…]
~~~
or is it not an off day
for the talent itself?
is it
instead
a perception problem?
is everything i read today
going to suffer from the
stale breadcrumbs of
‘this all sounds exactly the same’?
and
‘nothing brings me joy like it once did’?
and the other melodies of deep dark december
?
turn up the heat
turn on the dog-calming music
welcome our tired bones
from a restless sleep
awake because the outside
sounds like it’s trying to get in
banging and knocking and blowing so hard
over and over and over again
Buzz Buzz
bzbz
the vibration changes
when each alert
differentiates
BUZZbuzz BUZZbuzz
bzt
BUZZ BzzbzbzBzzbzbz BUZZ Bzzbz
Bzzzzzzzzzzzzz Bzzzzzzzzzzzz
i hope this helps
someone
anyone
gnome music
for after your words are done writing themselves
but you can’t come back to reality
quite
yet
[and there’s still a cat on your lap,
so there’s no way you could leave here
anyway]
sometimes
sometimes
sometimes
i want the
aesthetic /
the vibe
of writing
pen and paper /
ink and quill /
notebook
and brain
and nothing
else, but
oftentimes
that is just
too much /
too hassle /
too out of my
abilities in
this world,
so i simply
vibe and vibe
and write
and write and
create in the
best way i
can — laptop
and fingers
and my brain
that simply
will not quit.
kipventures 