i am amazed
at this body i was gifted
i am enraged
at this body that was
forced upon me;
i never gave my consent
to be born to this
but what a miracle
is life
is it not?
poetry
March 24, 2022
the dog hasn’t been eating much
and though it might be
old age/
picky taste/
boredom/
sensitive teeths
it could also mean she’s
depressed
(which,
like,
we can barely keep our own depressions
from swallowing us whole,
how can we care for
another being’s mind-demons???)
but
i digress
if Louka is depressed
i’ve decided to do my best
to make her just a little bit
happier
so yesterday
we went on a long, long walk.
i let her lead the way,
and barring standing in the middle of the road,
she was our guide.
through the meandering side-streets
of the north bronx
we were intrigued by smells off of a sports field,
scared off by loud subway sounds,
befriended by a neighbor-acquaintance
(and Louka received many treats
for her good ‘sits’ and ‘high-fives’),
and after we’d walked with them for a bit
we bid adieu
to explore a new street,
a new space,
we’d never been before–
and suddenly
in the midst of a mostly barren
chain-link fenced-in yard
stood a small, plastic bull
at attention
ready to fight
and Louka was ready as well
she sniffed
and stared
and stood her ground
until
a play bow!
a small, playful growl!
a fully formed play bark!
her tail wagged a staggering pace,
her hops and leaps and bounds
unbounded by her
skinny, old-dog frame
as she desperately tried to coax this
non-dog,
non-living,
little plastic bull
to play with her
(a dog who never plays,
not with toys,
or humans,
or even other dogs
unless forced to,
and even then…)
and i watched,
delighted,
damn near crying
because she’s been so sad
so lonely
so tired
so much less energetic
over the last few weeks/months/years
and i saw there a full puppy
happy dog tail
happy dog bounce
happy dog
play
acting like a puppy
(and on National Puppy Day!!!)
so maybe there is hope
and help
for our dog’s depression
and maybe
just maybe
that means the humans’ depressions in this house
might be lessened
just a bit
too.
March 23, 2022
working from what is best
best for me
best for my brain…
there are dozens (hundreds?) of poems
that never got to see the page of day
the poetry blog where all these have run off to
and some of them, yes, they are simply me
trying to wake myself up
vibe myself into the rest of the day
figure out what in the heck
my brain
is even doing
at any given moment
but some are
objectively
*good*
they just didn’t fit with the other poems for that day
or they’re too personal
and i just
cannot
i can’t have that out in the world
at least not on the inter-webs.
it’s like
i’m still that open book
with pages ripped out
and stuffed in my back pockets
or otherwise eaten
digested
you’ll never see them
(and it still surprises
even me
what things i’m willing to be so open about
and what i’m not,
and i think it has a little bit to do with what’s still affecting me
hardcore
and what makes sense to affect me
this hard
this long;
and
yeah
that’s all
[i was going to give examples
but like i said
already digested])
~~~
the blank toe tag
waves in the
non-existent breeze
hanging off of our
plastic skeleton
(named Barnaby)
and i know that there probably is a breeze
it’s probably the hot air from the radiator
just beneath
but still
i like to imagine
ghosts
messing with our deathly decoration aesthetics
as if to say
‘it’s/we’re
closer than you think!’
~~~
i feel like i could turn that first poem
into something more,
something bigger,
literally
solely
from that last stanza
there is a pace and flow and rhyme and feel
that gives slam poetry
that gives life to the creative in me
that gives me reason to keep going
to keep flowing
to maybe not post that today
but to perfect it
and bring it back
(or
who says i need to refrain from posting
in order to play?)
(fuck it, let’s post all three)
March 22, 2022
capture
the way
poetry
made you feel;
say
the phrases
only you
could come up with
within your big [fat] brain
(we all thought that was hilarious
way back in grade three:
‘you have lots of fat in your head,
if someone calls you a fat-head
say “thanks, it’s true!”’
so thanks, Bill Nye,
for giving us both an insult
and rebuttal
in one educational episode)
but the words
and flows
don’t flow
the way they ought
they used
to
they should
too
be calling from my mind
climbing
clambering
to come out
like i once came out
no, wait,
twice
came out
first from the closet
then from the binary
and finally,
maybe someday,
i’ll just come out from expectations set upon me
through old traditions
and new
and if i only knew
how to come out from under my own
oppressive
thumb
how free could i be?
but
the feral cat is still meowling
somewhere
outside
and the music is making
both myself
and my spouse
subtlety sway side to side
and the coffee hasn’t entered my system
fully
quite yet
and i wish there was a way
to have a style
without
reusing the same tired
words
phrases
that i use
every day
in every poem
in every way they come to me
(but i suppose that might be
because
humans
and humanity
and only having a certain capacity
and phases actually being a thing
that happens
it’s just, sexuality/gender is not usually one of them
(but sometimes they are, that doesn’t make them
less legitimate
and real)
(and, as a cis human, isn’t your gender ever-phasing
ever-changing
too?
is what you thought as the most important part
of being a boy/man
the same as it was when you were 7?
15?
20?
40?
70?)
all of life is moments
phases
fading in and out
let’s just acknowledge
pay attention
and enjoy the ride.)
March 21, 2022
i still don’t know
if i’ve learned anything
from this
poem-a-day
experiment
i have no idea if i’m a better writer
a better poet
(if there is such a thing
if one is predominantly participating
in free-verse
and experimental expression)
i feel like i’ve
experimented
with schemes and patterns
i might not have even tried
before this every-day
poem-writing
made me contemplate
what made my poetry
mine
and what made my poetry
interesting
and what made me
excited
to write
and what made me
excited
to read
even still
i have no concept
of what good vs. bad poetry
is
especially in relation to my own
and therefore
i have no idea
if i’ve gotten even a little bit better
(or worse)
but i haven’t run out of things to say
so there’s that.
March 20, 2022
New York City
is giving us
a true
spring!
(for the first time
in years)
yes, we were here in
Brooklyn
for two springs in a row,
but you’ve got to admit
the spring of
2020
was a little more surrealistic
than springtime
in terms of
~everything~
and please, Brooklyn, forgive us
for only observing
your brick walls
consistently
and so rarely entering
the park five minutes away
and before that,
Wisconsin,
with its approximate
two days of spring
(slightly more if you count
‘muddy’
as the season)
and half the time
snow would hit
full force
months after
we thought
spring was finally upon us
(and the next day
the blistering heat
of a midwest summer)
but here
in our own yard
we’ve seen the green
pop up from the ground
and even the days were a little snow
sprinkled the earth
the buds didn’t give up
they kept up
popped out
now, not just green,
we have purple, yellow, white,
black bumble bees buzzing
(a veritable enby flag of a backyard)
and we’ve eaten breakfasts,
had coffee,
made calls,
read,
worked,
watched,
on a deck that overlooks it all
and we breathe it in
slowing down
soaking it up
like the sun
A Bronx Spring.
March 19, 2022
writing about bagels
and reading about bagels,
reading about reviewing bagels
and writing about bagels once more
all thew while making/eating/pondering
bagels
it’s been a very bagel-y couple of days
[but when is it not
in New York City?]
March 18, 2022
“bagels…” we whisper
wistfully
into the air
towards the sky
aiming at the heavens
hoping the bagel gods
will grant us
everything
we desire
March 17, 2022
my sense of self
has never grown
past the age of the trauma
and while i’ve continued to wade through
life
and experiences
past eleven years old,
the photographic evidence proves nothing.
as that isn’t me.
can’t be.
maybe that’s why it felt so good
to change my appearance
so drastically;
the old ‘look’ was simply a shadow
of who i imagined i was,
a poorly made copy
adding weight
and height
and unnecessary curves
and worry in the heart and mind
but maybe this me
recreated like a phoenix from the ashes
of who i thought i’d be
can be the one who finally
stands in front of the small
blonde
little [girl]
in a frilly dress
and skinned knees,
and they can look this
non-binary adult
with rainbow hair
and gender-euphoria pants
and at last say
with confidence
and ownership
and love
“that’s me!”
March 16, 2022
quiet the mind,
shush the brain,
but don’t force the silence
because then that’s all that remains.
i wonder if that’s why others’ poetry
takes longer to write;
because rhythm/rhyme/meter
don’t all happen in one night,
or just one setting,
like sitting in this morning page sun
listening to Japanese hip-hop lofi
and just kinda ~wish~ my scheme into one
sentence
then another
and another
and losing track
and losing steam
and losing the scheme
i [vaguely] thoughtfully put in here
and hearing the rhymes in my head
but only scattered/stilted/disjointed/
disappointed
i continue on
disrupting any complex pattern that might have arisen
so i can continue on this mess of a poem
and pretend that’s just
How I Write
(instead of
how
i think)
kipventures 