my mind fills with stories
my eyes close and see words
language was always about translation
from thoughts to forms others understood
but here in this moment
when opportunity meets momentum
only morning pages
will ever
get done
~~~
but is that
so bad
a thing?
~~~
i know i could write prose in poetry
i know i could tell a story esoterically
but my words still only seem fit
to express the feelings
in my own life
how could i tell another’s?
capitalism
ruining even the most productive
of mornings
~~~
frustrated
distracted
hungry
but not yet ready
what a morning
~~~
banal tasks
take
less mental energy
but
when a sudden need
for that focus arrives
it’s quite jarring
i don’t really know
what
i want to do
what words i want to say
to share
with folks of varying varieties
acts
claps
applause
what is it all
and what is it all for
you know?
~~~
re-reading
old words
completed poems
even some not yet posted
and i think
that’s a great way
to spend
an end-of-year day
today—
don’t you?
~~~
dance around the room
calm the over-excited pup
listen to worded and non-worded music
read words about naps
and contemplate them, too
morning. here.
find sure footing
feel no floating
establish boundaries
no barriers
to your creativity
with only words
~~~
i did it
i performed
and this poem would be so much better
if i’d written it that
(or the next)
day
but i have to say
the feelings
of musical theatre magics
are starting to sneak up on me
again
(and i’m really unsure
how i feel about
that)
~~~
staying up
until midnight
to give the pup
the pill she needs
to not be in pain
all night long
but for me
for my mind
i probably should have been asleep hours ago…
i don’t really know
what i’m writing this morning
i just know
i wish i had
some
dopamine/serotonin/anything
to keep me company
through this season
~~~
is my
not having
an up-to-date phone
just a reminiscence of being
four versions out of date
in my aol/internet service
and therefore
a form of
comfort?
~~~
writing poems
and hearing the rhymes
that didn’t make it in
but somehow
making the poem
fuller
is a weird sort of poet magic
how do you
become at peace
with the fact
that you will never be doing enough?
i don’t know
but i think
that’s how to approach
anti-racism
anti-white-supremacy
anti-any-hate
in a sustainable way
(because otherwise
the sides of the coin
are performative
or overwhelmed catatonia
and neither
actually provide
results
or action)
~~~
there really is a comfort
to having a canine
use your leg
as a pillow
to prop up
their heavy heavy chin
~~~
when i pet my pets
the studies run through my head
of how this act helps the serotonin levels
in humans’ (and dogs’) brains
but i know my serotonin
or the transmitters that run it along
aren’t working at their full strength
so i often think to myself
“ok, here we go, serotonin, you can do it!!!”
just to help it
a bit
sometimes we need
store-bought chemicals
and sometimes we need
our own cheering squad
and sometimes we need
both
and that shouldn’t be looked down upon
late night writing
(not that late)
(is it even night?)
(damn daylight savings)
(at least i am writing)
~~~
what if
i let myself
really
trust
in the universe
and let
the rest
go?
~~~
there is an adage
in auditioning
in acting in general
to ‘find the love’
in any scene
if it seems
about money
or revenge
or procedure
or humor
or anything
or nothing
something
to make it
more interesting
more alive
find
the love
in life
in living
in the universe
find
the love
wake up
feel like crap
maybe write
maybe break your fast
with coffee or tea or bagels or nutella toast
go back to sleep
the subtle rise and fall of the last few days
with the in-between of my focus remained
upon a time when i can once again
feel like a fully fleshed-out human being
i feel:
lost
sick
tired
too awake
antsy
like the whole damn struggle bus
bored
hungry
embarrassed
like life is passing me by
such are the times/experiences/words
when the plague
finally hits you and your spouse
and neither of you are very good
or patient
patients
~~~
this isn’t to say
we’ve got it all that bad
from what we’ve seen of the outside world
of the overcrowded hospitals
and makeshift morgues
i’d say we’re this side of great
but that doesn’t negate
our experiences
our feeling of loss and lost
and struggle to be ourselves again
and when
my stress relief is reliant on physical ability
the exhaustion takes over
and i’m just
‘blah’
i suppose i’m trying to encapsulate
a moment
in time
without stepping over
others’
experiences
with so
so
so much worse
~~~
and
today
feels like spring-summer
and i know
i probably
won’t feel up
to feeling it
in all its
glory
[another form of loss]
a break
a gap
for multiple days
but
i’m not worried
in the way
i have been
because i know
i’m here
and i have things to say
no matter
what
~~~
re-writing history
is the way i deal with
days i couldn’t deal with
the morning pages
or mid-afternoon meditation
or evening ponderings…
simply take the time machine
of your blogging schedule
and post
in the past
(it’s surprisingly
easy)
~~~
(any more to say?)
[anything else to think?]
{or is writing
still coming back
into focus
after a few
days?}
not feeling
anything
(writing
listing
poetry-ing)
was i this
lost
this time
last
year?
~~~
trying
to writing
with songs with words
we’ll see how this goes
~~~
was music all i needed
for me to feel like
this is a real morning???
kipventures 