at least
i’ve committed to the bit
for as long as i have
working memory
at least
i come from a long line
of folks who have
absolutely committed to the bit
even before that was a common phrase
at least
i have so much fun
committing to the bit
because joy is
one of the things
i want most out of life
at least
others have acknowledged
and admired
my ability to commit to the bit
i don’t know what i’d do
if it were
otherwise…
a lovely family weekend
memorials and libraries
and beaches and movies
and good good food
always too short of a visit
but at least there are visits
[and monday evening facetimes
even when we’re both so tired]
we have known each other
a damn long time, after all
after all
whoops
i stayed out too long in the sun
and now my shoulders are as pink as a gender-performative bow
chatting about things i’ve done
which i have little to no memory of
is always kind of a trip
[but i’ve come to accept it]
this poem could be titled: visits with my father
no more hair to run one’s fingers through
but plenty to touch like velvet
smooth one way
spiky the opposite
and scritch-a-scratch
the head
too
the sixteen beeps of the
nightly car alarm
that keeps me half awake from 2:30 to 5:30
when i give up and just get up
i’ve counted the beeps
but i haven’t counted the seconds between
because that changes
it could be a few seconds
it could be a few minutes
it’s just varied enough to keep
my nerves heightened
i think, if the beeping continued and continued, i may be able
to sleep through that, or if it was sixteen beeps, then sixteen beeps
worth of silence, maybe i could be lulled into unconsciousness through
the pattern, but this lack of consistency is what keeps me
awake
and in stress
avoiding things
and having them be
easy
doing things right way
and seeing they are
hard
how long till it balances out?
how long till everything is even-keeled?
how long till i actually understand myself and humanity in general?
[i think i may be out of luck in that respect…]
i’m writing so many words today
figuring things out in my brain i
didn’t know i needed figuring out
through poetry
and allegory
and just straight up facts
the coffee has hit the tastebuds
but i’ve written so fast
i think it hasn’t yet hit the bloodstream
or brain
quite yet
i didn’t know i didn’t know i didn’t know
i needed to process these particular things
but that’s why morning page poetry is so useful:
sometimes you sit down to write
and you just write about how much you’re
not writing
and sometimes you sit down to write
and discover secrets that you had hidden
from even
yourself
now to process the processing…
playing and experimenting
and stretching and folding
and walking and posing
and it almost
almost
almost felt like madison
again
the immediate is often a good way to start
the senses:
i see — this blank page in front of me, but like most digital
formats, i’ve kept it in dark mode, so it doesn’t really feel like
a blank piece of paper, white and crisp and clean, it feels like
every other dark digital adventure in my life right now
i hear — the fan above me, well, i believe i hear the motor
turning it, not so much the fan itself, though the fan does
blow the air into my ears, and i cannot tell if that’s a hear or
a feel sense, because they get mixed up somewhere in my
brain, but also i hear cars outside every so often, and my
kip placing their mug of tea back on the table after taking
a sip
i feel — also the fan, it’s blowing its air so hard that i’m
gathering goosebumps along my arms as i write, thinking
to myself ‘maybe i should have kept that flannel on, or
brought down a cardigan, or a hoodie…’ why am i such a
freezebaby? it’s summer, it’s the time to wear shorts and
tank tops and always feel overheated and sweaty, i’m
simply cold and sweaty, like the rest of the year…
i smell — the coffee i just made for myself, blackberry cobbler
coffee, wafting in through the kitchen and through my own mug,
mixing in with the scents of this house i am now nose-blind to,
until i leave for a bit, then i come back inside, and there are those
smells, the smells of wood and kips and one dog one cat and
something else that i only associate with this house…they’re all
there in the mix as well
i taste — that same coffee, sipping every few minutes, sipping when
i’m at a loss for what to write and need a moment to find my
bearings, sipping when i feel the placebo effect from the last sip
fading, and need to remind my neurons that i’m caffeinated, even
though i know the caffeine really doesn’t affect me that much; it’s
all association with taste, and honestly, i kind of like it that way
i wrote of the immediate
i wrote three hundred plus words in this poem alone
is this enough of a warm-up for writing?
is this something i’d want to actually post?
is this enough of a warm-up for life and living?
i think so
i think so
i think so
