if only
i wanted things
and then let myself take steps
towards them
~~~
ok
so what about wanting small things
and letting myself lead up to them
and taking those steps
all for me
all for me?
~~~
these morning pages are a bit of a mess
and i’m a bit of a mess
and i’m stressing and stressing
but maybe someday i’ll know what i’m trying to say
blanket cat
blankets me with all of her
over my lap
dripping down my leg
covering all she can cover
in one tiny cat body
the opposite of loafing
she liquifies and spreads out
and blankets herself
over
me
~~~
blanket cat, also because
the minute you have a blanket on your lap
she cannot resist
the draw
of a comfy place to sit
~~~
poor little puppy ear
did nothing to the dog who was near
but something happened
and the bite landed
and now a little notch is part of our Comps’s visage
poor little puppy ear
poor little puppy
you don’t deserve this pain
or fear
or anything bad
but at least your cute scruffy ear is going to look
so adorable with a tiny notch on the side
[the one piece of solace
we have to hang on to]
Three Musings on Summer Thunderstorms:
the sky darkens to post-sunset dusky grey
and a lightning bolt passes by my window
the rumble of thunder
the stream of rain
and this summer storm is at it again
[i love this weather]
~~~
thunderstorms make me smile
interrupting the daily toil
of sunrise and shine and set and night
darkening a summer morning
or lightning-flash-brightening
midnight pitch black,
sounds escaping our atmosphere —
booms and cracks and the smacks of hard raindrops
cleansing the air
feeding the ground
offering greener hues when the showers subside
and summertime just isn’t summer
without
~~~
drench me in rain
fill my ears with thunderclaps
and my eyes with bright bolts of lightning
let me taste a summer storm
and offer my nose the delightful scent
of petrichor
as the pressure changes
and my heart grows
and i know
i’m present and whole.
stress
and apprehension
and it not feeling like
an actual opening
and the stories we tell ourselves
about ourselves
when i tell myself these stories
it’s to try to solidify
who i am
because i have no idea
i have no plan
~~~
does one good line
make a poem?
is this my style/my curse?
~~~
my poems are making little to no sense to me
this morning
but i’m still writing them
i’m still dilligently typing
words and phrases as they come
hoping to find some meaning
some
time
soon
i still feel like i’m trapped in my house
not allowed to go out
not suitable for other human’s consumption
and i want to need to wait
a bit
longer to be permitted to rejoin the human race
~~~
unknown what to write
what to even think about
when my morning has been going
a certain way for a week, and now goes
a completely
different route
[i hate that i need consistency]
~~~
puppeteering
and back to singing
and in a show again
and pride-month dancing
and still i have no idea
if i even want to be perceived
in front of an audience
at this stage in my life
or not
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.
math jazz
leaves your mind
expecting
exactly
what it
isn’t
~~~
i’ve written so much
of
nothing this morning
and
i can’t seem to stop
nor
do i feel satisfied with anything i’ve done
so
i guess i’ll keep writing and writing and writing
until
i feel some sort of closer closure, somewhere.
~~~
do i not want to review my older works because i think they’ll be worse,
or do i not want to delve deep because i know myself and my tendency
to get all wrapped up, bundled in the blanket of the past, wondering
what if what if what if, until i find myself unable to experience the
presence of the
present
moment
?
making new
traditions
making old traditions
happier
making things work
in this snow-less escape
that is our regular every day life
in new york city
~~~
down the coffee
slip off to the holiday market
grab cider/
wine/
juice/
anything
to make a mulled wine
happen
and also some stickers
and also some goofy goofs
and also
some
potential
presents
for a new
present moment
~~~
silly,
i
already
know
i want something new
something more
than what i have now
or what i had before
but i don’t know in what way
i just know there’s no way
i can do this day-to-day
without at least a teensy bit of
variety
~~~
man, my writing is just
not slapping like it
usually does
this morning
we all have off days
in every aspect of our lives
but why can’t i just decide
when my off days will collide with me?
[that wouldn’t bring nearly as much
self-education as i need…]
~~~
or is it not an off day
for the talent itself?
is it
instead
a perception problem?
is everything i read today
going to suffer from the
stale breadcrumbs of
‘this all sounds exactly the same’?
and
‘nothing brings me joy like it once did’?
and the other melodies of deep dark december
?
i’m not ready
for the slew of wrap-ups
the posts and the culminations
the retrospectives of what this year has been
to so many many people…
it all just seems so false
so farcical
so individually selfish to
look back a year of billions of people
and only think about you
your loss
your gain
your sorrow
your joy
i want perspective
[which i’m sure some will find]
[maybe even most of the folks whose stuff
i’m likely to see]
[or maybe
i’m being unkind
maybe
i need to take a second to rewind —
we all only know what we individually think
and it is the masses of individuals
that make the community we seek;
so why not look back
and share
with those we think of as
our people
our comrades
our neighbors and our folks?]
[still, i can’t help but think
about how shitty a year this has been
and how much and how little has happened
and how, in the grand scheme of things,
even with my utter sorrow and grief,
i still have it better than so so so so so many people
and i can’t stop thinking
about genocide
of people
of the earth
and feel so damn
helpless
hopeless
over here]
~~~
at least there is a little puppy
playing with her little chew-toy
of a collection of mushrooms on a log
and, wait, she is having too much fun,
i check behind me, and she has instead a rainbow sweater in her jaws
i tell her to stop
she immediately drops
and looks at me
with her adorable puppy-dog eyes
and wags her tail
because — though i said no and was stern — i’m paying attention to her now
and that’s all she really wants
attention
love
and care
and i can give her those things
no problem, no problem there.
~~~
only two poems
and already over the word-goal
it’s almost like i really had some things to say
today
kipventures 