hungry
for breakfast
day
for justice
and peace
hungry
for whatever’s
just out of reach
hungry
starving
yearning
wanting
learning
that sometimes
the hunger makes the stomach work
harder
but not better
rather
worse
than how it was left
before
before
stream of consciousness
June 6, 2024
here we go
into the flow
of a habit
we’re tracking
and i’m tricking myself
[or at least it feels like it]
into feeling like i can actually
write more poetry
when i don’t have a creative bone in my body
[again, all perceptions
from the realm of the brain]
and i can’t even think of something i’d like to address
because everything feels overwhelming
to the point where i’m just beating myself up about
not doing anything
as i can feel the trauma of the whole situation
bearing down
and bearing through
what little defenses i had up
i had going
and i’m too hungry to think of good rhymes
and i’m too tired to conenct any of the lines
from here to there
from Palestine to liberation
but i know it’s here
somewhere
i know it’s there
and through it all we can liberate
the Congo and Sudan and Haiti
and everywhere else people look like me — in that i have two eyes
and a nose
and a mouth that smiles
and a heart that feels
and ears that love to hear stories
and the human condition is so much more
and so much less
than we make it out to be
the human condition is being human
here
on this planet
please
let’s not
lose it.
May 5, 2024
my head is all over the place
which can make for interesting poetry
when i cannot follow one subject all the way through
but fifteen different thoughts have already sped through
my racing brain
but the sleep is also tugging
and i have no way of judging
which direction to go
or how much to write
or let go
or just let it be
as it is
in this mess that it is in
~~~
if i actually followed the stream of consciousness/
the different trains that blast off from
the one station of *my brain*
i still don’t think i’d have words for most thoughts —
‘high speed’ ‘ugh, typing’ ‘that beat’ ‘coffee’ ‘food’ ‘puppies’
none of those words tell a story
in the way i’d want my poetry to express —
how i called it a stream, but i feel like my thoughts are trains
holding all the context for each word within each car
but they blast off like high-speed rail, something i’d love to have in this
fucking country, and sometimes i’m on the train itself, but sometimes i’m left at the station
waiting for all the thoughts to come back to me, eventually
[hopefully whole, with some new passengers/context aboard]
~~~
i feel like the more i write
the worse my poetry ends up
and i don’t know what to do
or how to think
about that.
January 6, 2024
too hungry
to concentrate
too uncomfortable
to think
too acting-as-a-leaning-post-for-the-dog
to adjust my legs
and dive/delve deep
into morning poetry
too tired
too distracted
too sad/shared anxiety/apathetic/too pathetic/wanting other words to be right
when none of them fit
to do anything right now
guess i can always try again
later
June 30, 2022
i can feel you
just past my fingertips
lightly guiding my time
here
and i wonder if you
hear me when
i talk to
you
~~~
language
is a slippery slope
a slow burn to
bonfire blaze
flames
licking the sides
of a place
you once called
home
language
and manipulation of it
is spending years
decades even
trying to find
the perfect word or phrase
for every situation/
meaning/
feeling
until you realize
language will never be enough
so you just do what you gotta
until the day when something
comes close enough
that it gives you
a shadow of
that feeling
language
is my art form
and when i’ve done it right
it paints pictures without a canvas,
tells stories sans narratives,
brings others into a close embrace
without ever
getting
near
and for someone who despises words
and their limitations
as much as i do,
i sure hold language dear.
~~~
is it time?
time to prose it up
again?
my fingers now type
automatically
in stanzas
(could i even go back
to straight narrative
if i tried?)
these poems might not be
exactly
what i’m trying to say,
but damn is it closer than any
‘stream of consciousness’
over-writing
will get me.
April 25, 2022
dreams
of memories
of happy times
(and sad)
of the task still yet to be fulfilled
(the telling of all the neighbors
that Louka
is gone)
but yes, this puppy makes things
ever so slightly easier
and this morning i told her
“you know, Louka was surrounded by so much love
and you are too, now, in this house
yes, there is a ton of sadness still inside
but there is
so
much
love
for you,
Computer”
~~~
i’m more awake
than i have been
in days
(perhaps weeks)
and yet
i know not
at all
what i’d like to write
(or what’s in my brain
that needs to get out)
this afternoon will be
one week
without Louka,
our love,
but 48 hours with Computer,
a new source
for all the love
that had nowhere to go,
and i’ve been writing so much
about all these emotions
but i’m sure i have others;
anxiety is still there
as is depression
as is freedom when flying for circus
as is annoyance when walking through tourist areas of nyc
(how do non-new yorkers walk so damn slow
and
take up the entirety of the sidewalk???)
and perhaps i can add accomplishment
to my listing of emotions
if i actually write some emails
and catch up with some professionals today
so i can say
i’ve kept up with my career
though i’ve been in mourning
and training,
in saying goodnight
and nice to meet you,
and getting to know this new creature
and grieving and grieving and grieving…
i know i needed this past week
to wallow
to be swallowed
by all the emotions that swelled up inside
by giving my whole heart to a four-legged creature
for the last nearly 8 years of my life,
to feel the sadness as it needed to be felt
(instead of ignoring/working through/putting off the whole process
like i’ve always done
that’s always felt so unhealthy)
(did Louka teach us more than just how to be good dog parents?
did she also teach us how to fully deal with loss?)
and yes, one week is not enough,
Louka was such a good dog,
such an important dog,
such a special, unique, kind, gentle, dog,
such my dog
that i’m sure i’ll feel her memories
presence
and a sadness at her physically not being close
for the rest of my life,
but letting it consume me
in a way that felt like loss,
not like regret,
was a lesson i’ll keep with me
forever.
what a good dog.
~~~
i’ve simply been writing things
as they come
as they come up
as i’m overtaken
and i haven’t done much editing
or revising
before placing my thought-stream
onto the poetry-blog
and i hope this is what i need right now
(it sure seems like it is,
otherwise
why would i be doing it?)
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.)
February 18, 2022
my brain is not awake yet,
nor is my body, really,
and the first sip of coffee is cheap
when
you know you could sleep for hours
even with the whole mug in your bloodstream,
and i keep getting distracted by tiny chores
which probably could/should be done,
but will it take away from these
morning page poetry streams of [semi-un]consciousness(?)
and
why can’t i think of myself like i did
at fifteen
seventeen
nineteen
when i fancied myself a mini-ee cummings
well on my way to
making language my b*tch(?)
even though now it’s probably more reality-based
to think that someone else has thought of
‘streams of [semi-un]consciousness’
before,
but boy,
did it give my ego a boost
to think i was thinking
entirely new thoughts
new concepts
new words
new communications
with new people
instead of how my brain is now
knowing that there are no new ideas
and instead of that spurring me on
to create without worry of plagiarism,
it instead spurns every concept i have
with the barrage of
‘you will never be creative enough
to think of anything
fully
new’
[
you
].
February 4, 2022
man
these morning poems aren’t doing shit for me
and i’ve felt adrift since 2022 day three
and i thought i’d found where my serotonin was lost
but it turns out it was just capitalism in a silly mustache
and i tried for a while to follow the dopamine
but i guess that dopamine i followed wasn’t meant for me
so i suppose i could just succumb to the unconscious dreams of sleep
but naps give me less time to accomplish the day
but is it even day if the sky is so grey
and the haze of the rain pounds the panes in sheets
and this playlist slaps but sometimes too much too deep
and i’ve probably lost the rhyme scheme somewhere in this mush of words
but i push and i pull and i try to open new doors
but they scare me so much
i’m paralyzed
to the floor
so i guess i’ll write
and write some more
until i can pull up my feet
and walk outside
once
more.
September 25, 2021
oh no,
forgotten poem
let’s fix that.
~~~
A Peaceful Town Where
NothingEverHappens
the song,
and beat,
strikes chords in my soul,
bopping my head
along the predetermined rhythm
wait wait waiting for the weird interlude
of words,
otherwise wordless,
the songs slip
into
and out of
me
A Peaceful Town Where
NothingEverHappens
~~~
how much of my writing,
these days at least,
is actual
“good”
poetry?
how much of it is getting into the crux of the matter/
brain matter/
how much do i matter?
i want inspiration,
inspiration to squeeze perspiration,
perspiration from my brain stem
where all the cogitation
infiltrates…
but i don’t ever know
if
when i rhyme-scheme like that
is it more me
or less?
am i playing by someone else’s rules?
am i becoming ‘cringe-y’?
although, the concept of awkward
is always from the dominant culture
so why am i so worried
if i want so badly to destroy white supremacy
and stick it to the man
and burn it all down and start something new
better
kinder?
is it because i was raised within the dominant culture?
it’s been embedded in my brain to worry about things
such as
keeping the status quo
all status
all quo?
as much as i try to fight for what’s right,
i definitely get a little fearful
of rocking the boat
too much
…
does that say i don’t actually want to rock the boat at all?
or am i simply aware that i have a lot more internal work to do?
or is the dominant culture simply one of invisible,
undefinable,
imperceptible,
unmeasurable,
strength
that sticks its claws into every fibre of our being
until we are still working for what we so long to work against?
fuck the idea of awkwardness
of status-ing the quo
i have rainbow hair, for goodness sakes,
i crave validation of my “weirdness”
i have rarely tried to dance to anyone’s beat but my own
(i’m just often unaware what my beat actually is…
i hear so many others
and it’s wonderful
and cacophonous
and beautiful music
but i would like to pick out mine
amongst the others
at some point
soon…)
kipventures 