interesting
interesting
i wrote but i didn’t post
yesterday
i wonder what that means
i wonder what that means
and the puppy just freaked out and boof-howled
but she hadn’t done that with Kip not around
i wonder what that means
and the cat has been perching on my lap
far more in the last couple of weeks
than since we lost Louka
i think i might know what that means
and additionally
i feel like
my writing has gotten
so
much
worse
lately
i wonder
what
that
means
still bizarre to me
that people who do not know me
would want to read my poetry
but i suppose i’ll just keep posting it here
for anyone at all to see
planning and preparing
are nothing when it comes to
insurance
human fallibility
and the twists of the fates
~~~
i use squiggles
[tildes]
to break the momentum
from one poem
to the next
but only in a batch of three
because formatting in devices these days
is far too variable
for a whole line
so i rely on my
three
little
squiggles
to [hopefully] signify
to both reader and writer
that this poem is over–
re-ready yourself
for a whole new
poem
beginning.
~~~
lost in the depths of a book
so visceral
so immersive
so taking-me-along-for-the-ride
i can’t decide
if this one is more stressful than the first
but all of these ninths
give me some sort of curse
of caring
and staring
long distances as i listen to them
audiobooks carrying me through the star-system
the big house
the river
and i just want to know
what happens next
what happens next
what happens next???
wrote
but didn’t post
how unlike me—
—how like me
(though who can say but me)
is that
actually
what i’m doing
when i write
and post
my poetry?
i’m fitting myself
into each word
and phrase
and whichever one
comes closest
to revealing the true
me
is the one that meets
The Void
of the interwebs?
could be,
could be…
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)
open the eyes
crawl out of the bed
put on the clothes
brush the teeth
grab the laptop
shuffle down the stairs
write the poetry
be dissatisfied in the poetry
listen to the ‘evil classical’ playlist
zone out for a bit
write more of the poetry
be dissatisfied in the poetry
meow back at the cat
drink the coffee
read the script for the new podcast
gaze at the dog
write even more of the poetry
feel generally ok about the poetry
change the capitalization
copy and paste into the website
publish the poem
get on with the day
out of order,
and with a bagel in one hand,
but i’m doing it,
following my dreams and desires
(at least as far as the
morning poetry is concerned)
and the lofi is bumping
(and i can’t stop thinking
of it being labeled
‘millennial smooth jazz’)
and even though i’ve written
at least one poem
over the last three days,
the fact that the posted poems
are older than 72 hours
makes this feel…stale
(and all i really want
is for my plants to be healthy,
so i suppose
i’ll cut this short
in order to care for the greenery,
and just write/just finish/just post this singular/rambly/imperfect
poem
and hope it’s close enough
for jazz
(or for lofi, as the case may be)
went to sleep in a Mood™
woke up in a Whole Other Mood™
and i’m realizing how reliant i am on
the negative talk and self-sabotage and executive dysfunction
to truly be the blame for when things go wrong,
so when i am happy, when i do actually put forth the effort
to try to do things right,
and if circumstances just happen to breed the same outcome…
the low-key self-hatred,
the kind i can ignore away
because it’s always there
becomes loud
becomes bites with teeth
and those teeth are the “proof” from the external factors
which i know, logically, are circumstantial,
or i could have done something to change, but i literally didn’t know at the time
but damn if that bite isn’t sharp and deep
deep
deep down to my soul
till i start to believe the fanged monster
when they say
truly
no one loves you
and you are to blame
[look at all this proof]
~~~
and now we have the decision-making,
the ‘do i put this up on my site or not’-ing.
i’m truly fine;
i’m an adult, so i don’t have those crazy teen-hormones running around my brain and bloodstream
begging me to do something rash,
something stupid,
something irreversible.
and i am nothing if not an overthinker,
i can see the consequences of each and every action i might take
from here inside myself to externally to those i love
to forward moving in the future
and even back-ward looking to color the past
but that overthinking and knowing i’m too intellectual to actually do anything about anything
makes for even more frustration in the moment
there’s no outlet
no doing anything
just writing sad poetry
and waiting it all out…
so i guess
don’t take this as a plea for help
just take this in as my brain working some shit out.
~~~
just go read your own writing
maybe you’ll like yourself
one day
i can’t seem to make my fingers type,
my brain to process,
my mind to wake up,
my body to…do anything but crave coffee.
i passed the 100th day of writing daily poetry
and of course i forgot all about it
in favor of writing a poem that was relatively mundane,
but also full of hope and potential and change
and, ultimately, relatability.
i assumed i’d write about the 100 days
(and subsequent forgotten anniversary)
the following day,
the one hundred and first day,
look back on the full hundred days,
look forward towards two hundred and sixty four more
but Louka needed us
badly
yesterday
so we were with her,
and my only poem was an invocation
a hope
that everything would be okay.
while it’s not perfectly okay now,
it’s not terrible.
still scary
for all of us,
but it’s not a stroke,
it doesn’t seem neurological,
and we’ll continue sleeping on the couch next to her
and carrying her up and down our fourth floor Brooklyn walk-up
for as long as we all need.
because
our dog
is the goodest dog,
she is,
and we would do anything and everything for her,
including buying a house.
kipventures 