sometimes
i hide from my grief
like i can feel it coming towards me
i’m looking over my shoulder
trying to outpace its steps
ducking into door frames in alleyways
hoping it’ll just walk past me
and keep on going
and i can be
free
but my grief is a part of me
it is inside me
it is made up of me
i can’t escape myself
[no matter how hard i try]
so why
can’t i let grief
just
ride?
it’s 8:30
and i’ve started my morning pages
[morning poems]
and i’d like a coffee, but i forgot to get one
and i’d like to water the plants, but it’s not time for that
yet
and i’d like to be known
but
i’d like to work outsides of the systems our society is based on
and working outside of those systems
is pretty much impossible
because everything is connected
just like everything is connected
to our Earth
here
and we just can’t stop things from going
the world from turning
the sun from rising and setting
and time from flying
and people from dying
and people from being born and born and born
and it sometimes feels so overwhelming
when you feel like the whole universe is in your mind
but turn it around
to the other side
you are one part of the universe
small
but
so
so
so
important
don’t hold things you don’t have to
let them go
and work for your little corner
of the great
connections
[we are all fractals of this planet]
a sudden sad
is it the rain?
is it my own mistake
in ordering our breakfast day?
is it my hormones
being completely out of balance?
is it my mood disorder
and some sort of need to meditate?
or is it living under late-stage capitalism,
watching systems that care more for profit
than for people,
and observing tragedies,
wars,
and genocides
half a planet away
that i almost almost almost almost feel
i have some power to stop,
when in reality
i absolutely
do not?
guess it’s probably the rain…
Lost
and still found
and still running around
spinning, flailing, trying to find something to hold on to
to keep myself from flying off out-of-control again
even though that’s what my vestibular system
wants so so so badly
wants to wake it up
and be a child
Again
lost
by the wayside
trapped
by the tears i cry
[a prison made of droplets
would be very asethetic
indeed]
at least there’s the smell
of cotton candy coffee
to bring me back to
this
reality
[whether or not that’s what i need
is not to be answered right now…
…probably]
overthinking
overfeeling
to the point of it all becoming
[nothing]
and now we’re home,
and watching the outside cats
sniff/fight over/eat the food
i set out for them every morning,
and i have cold coffee next to me,
and speakers playing music,
and everything is back to how it should be —
and it almsot feels like this weekend
didn’t even happen
[but this utter exhaustion speaks
for the drive and time awake
and stress and overnights
in not-our-own-bed
and lack of routine
from this past
weekend
i guess it had to have happened]
the whole concept
of autographs
is so weird
to me
what is the value
of a sheet of paper
with scribbles all over?
i’m actually asking —
is it the fact that they touched it?
the proof of the meet
between you and a famous person?
what about a book on a shelf
that just happens to have the author’s signature
on the inside cover?
no meeting occurred,
no special message inscribed,
just a/the name
in a/the book
they wrote…
and does it still apply
if a famous author signs
a book they didn’t write?
honestly, that’s what i’d like —
a famous/famously trans author
signing all my [wizard child] books;
a woman signing those tomes contrived
by known misogynists
[of which there are so many];
any sort of “blasphemous” writer
signing
a bible —
i personally think that’s worth more than the dime-a-dozen
‘signed by author’
examples
in bookstores all over…
…but maybe that’s
just me
traveling
for a short weekend
away
isn’t the worst decision
to do so
to Boston
the weekend of
St. Patrick’s Day
and to inadvertently book
a hotel stay
in the heart of Irish Pub town
that maybe was a mistake…
dance, for me, was never a release
or an expression of self
[at least before i found circus]
it was always what my body was doing “wrong”
what i needed to “fix” in movement
or appearance
it was so much about “looking”
rather than being
and living
but i’ve been working as a paid backup dancer
for a few months now,
and, granted, this isn’t the most professional
or well-funded endeavor
i’ve ever
been on
or seen,
but
it’s given me
such a whole new perspective
on how healing
and expressive
and giving
dance can actually be
[even though i’m still so critique-y
when i see
what my body does
naturally…
i suppose we all have
something
to work on —
whether it’s flexibility
or a better turn-out
or our own perceptions of self —
we can always be better
and
we can always be kinder
even to ourselves]
kipventures 