September 23, 2026

morning page poems are such a wild ride

because i sit down at a screen and start to write
and have zero words
[well, technically three, as i date every entry]
and i begin to write
and no matter how many words i put into the document
the word counter never seems to go beyond 150
and with a 300 word goal, this is agonizing
so i sludge and trudge through this sand dune of letters
never seeming to become full words that count
and i write and write and write and write
and eventually i forget to check the word count —
i get lost in a poem or a memory or a simple phrase
and before i know it, i’ve gotten multiple poems down
and i glance at the word count, and it’s approaching 300
not quite there yet, but i get a sense of sadness, that soon i will achieve the 300 word mark
and that means i no longer need to be writing
[not that i’d stop myself from continuing on, it’s just a weird feeling of disappointment, that i won’t actually
need to be writing anymore in a moment]
and then
i get lost again
in a poem/word/thought/phrase/memory/something
and i glance down at the word count
and i’ve gone well beyond 300 words
[just now i hit 500, in case you’re wondering]
and i wonder if i’m feeling like my morning pages are done
i wonder if i’ve got anything that i’m willing to post to share
into the ether/the void/the possibility of it being read
though so few people actually do look to read
every
single
day

but i do
do this
every
single
day

and tomorrow morning the journey will probably be the same

but the words/phrases/poems/thoughts/discoveries
will not be

and i think that’s neat.

September 10, 2026

i love when the words just flow just drip just pour
from my fingertips without squeezing
without pushing
without forcing
like they were always meant to be there
in that order
with that meaning

[can i have more
of that
please?]

August 8, 2026

leave it to a thunderstorm
rumbling in my bones
as my eyes watch the trees
sway and toss and turn in the intense breeze
to actually get my brain and body and heart to acknowledge
a love for being alive
on this Earth

it feels too emotional
too sincere
to share in any way but poetry
but even the words of poetry feel too simple
for the intensity of the feeling
or too flowery to really embody
the groundedness of the feeling
[though flowers are grounded too, in their growing, are they not?]

how can i explain the feeling of ‘home’
that is this living within all Earth has to offer?
i love her i love her i love her
and maybe that’s the heightened emotions talking
and maybe that’s my experience with many personifications happening
and maybe there’s a distance and a pushing that comes from
writing this hours and hours and after the experience
but my heart feels to bursting with love of this planet
and yet, i know my heart will not explode,
for everything has worked itself out over billions of years
for hearts to not literally engorge with emotion,
but the feelings align with physical signs
my heart seems to fill, to push up at my throat
as that signals to my eyes to fill with tears
just as they did last night
during the thunder and lighting and rain and realization
that i actually
at that moment
and this
love being
alive

and i have the Earth to thank

July 17, 2026

writing gibberish
writing balderdash
writing silliness and illegible things and nothing at all

writing not only to have written
but to feel the feeling of writing

writing to wake myself up and warm myself up for the day
that probably won’t include more writing
[but you never know…

you
never
know]

June 25, 2026

i wish i could think of all the words i can’t think of right now

i wish i could recall all the vocabulary that’s in my head
but they’re stuck behind sticky mind-doors
where the mental wood has warped over the years of trauma
and protecting myself against trauma

the maze in my mind
simply to find
a fucking synonym
is atrocious

[i measure out how detrimental it is to the poem
if i should sit and think, and perhaps get lost in my own thoughts
or stop and look it up on the internet, and thereby lose the spell i cast
on my own poetry being sans-internet-influence,
or ask my kip
or set a reminder to go back and check
at a later time…

usually i set a reminder in the way of brackets around one word
and hope i can find the exact alternate
i thought i could think of
at the time of writing]

June 18, 2026

beautiful words
about ugly things
i wish i could write like my thoughts were cursive
calligraphy
a cartography of trauma set in gorgeous handwriting

but i’m a type-writer
printed and sure
un-erasable blank ink holding
my most ephemeral thoughts
not beautifully tragic
but solidly uncertain words
in the most permanent of ways of writings
we use today

[but nothing will survive the heat death of dominicus
right?]

June 17, 2026

it’s always so fascinating to me
watching my poetry
slide from one subject matter
[an introductory topic, if you will]
into the underlying
what-it’s-really-about
as if my conscious brain
*almost* gets it
but *always* needs to let the
subconscious brain take over
to get to the heart of the matter
[and if i try to control too much —
with form or function or rhyme or
look — the underlying message can’t come out;
or still does, but ruins whatever basis i had
laid out] and this pattern, of
almost-but-not-quite-knowing what my poetry will really
be containing, is like watching a movie of your own life
in front of you — you know what it was like behind your eyes
but from this third-person vantage, it’s all a little off
a little wild
a little unsettling in its
potential comfort,
but still entertaining
because of the new
perspective

that’s what my morning poetry is like
for me, most
mornings

June 13, 2026

a whole ass essay
in poem-form
that’s how i carve out what i’m thinking
what my soul has been saying
in non-words for decades
and i still don’t think the language is all there
nor the concepts fully categorized
but each poem is a start
an opening door to somewhere
or someone
with maybe a little more
understanding

[but only if i share it]

May 19, 2026

a poem
like any other poem
it has words
that convey emotion
that convey a point of opinion/objection/intention
to get across
to others

a poem
like any other poem
uses letters
known by other humans
and sometimes other humans
understand the poet’s
conveyances

a poem
like any other poem
is called a poem
because a poet wrote some poetry
at one point
and put it out into the world
[even if that just means
onto a paper
no one other than the poet
would ever really read]
that poem exists
like any other
poem