tiny books and booklets
and notebooks and scraps of paper
and bound and unbound pages
everywhere
everywhere
everywhere
what will i ever do with all these writings?
[what will i ever do with this digital equivalent as well?]
poetry about writing
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 16, 2026
writing in a way that felt hard
but turned easy
because i [apparently] have
a lot
to say
[the hj story]
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 29, 2026
lend me a
bit of a
repose
jump in and then
jump out for a
moment
i can run and run
and get things done
but i need a break every
now and again
even if it’s just half an hour
to write my morning poetry
[and then back to grinding]
May 22, 2026
write
and write
and write and write and write
until you’ve exorcised all the demons
inside your own mind
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
May 17, 2026
sink deep into the couch
close your eyes while you write
and maybe, just maybe,
something beautiful will come to you
something beautiful will osmosis into you
something beautiful will meditate into your mind
from the outside
and make its way through
closed eyes
and open fingertips
to the keys on your keyboard
and, magically, digitally, technologically
appear on your [now no longer blank] computer screen
that’s how poetry works, right?
kipventures 