do past poets
ever view todays’
as cheaters?
“i never had rhyming dictionaries
back in my day…”
“the whole of human knowledge
at your fingertips
and this drivel
is what you come up with???”
good thing
i don’t believe in an afterlife
otherwise
i’d be worried
about generations of past poets behind me
judging my work
instead of simply all of humanity
from now going forward…
interpretation
is 90%
of the poetry game
maybe that’s why i write so bluntly
so obviously
sans metaphor
sans simile
so the interpretation can be
exactly what it was meant to be
[or is this just another example
of me trying to hold on to control
of a thing i really can’t control at all?]
it is kind of wild to me
that art in and of itself
is simply an invitation to
s t r e t c h
any truth we may want to share or inhabit
[any pureness for accuracy
may or may not be
entertaining/
good art anyway
so why not craft reality
to your individual
liking?]
cryptic poems
are no fun
when they’re written for the pure purpose of being obtuse
but cryptic poems
that come fully fleshed
from the depths of your mind
and you had no idea where it came from
or even
what in the world it’s trying to confide
but it’s here
it’s out
in the world
those cryptic poems are okay.
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
the interesting thing
about this way of writing
poetry
(and prose, i suppose)
is that flowing from the fingertips
is actually the most apt analogy—
i don’t sit here
pondering each line
especially coming up with each
rhyme
instead i’m writing
and writing
and typing as the words come to me
sometimes before even
i have any sort of language inside my mind
but the words keep flowing/
like little rivers from brain/
to my hands/
crafting a poem
a story
a something
and not knowing if it’s good or not
but at least
knowing
that it
flows
usually
i use morning page time
to write what’s bouncing around in my mind
and smooth out the edges
of the frantic thoughts and premises
and write for an audience
once i’m done
parsing
ponderings
but this morning
i’m just continually
digging through
my mind’s soil
and seeing what might grow
and i don’t know
if any of my work is readable
much less digestible
but better to let indigestion take hold
than not have anything to show
from such a
productive
pensive
morning
right?
the focus
of today
is failing
whether i write one hundred words
or one
i can’t seem to keep them all in line
with one another
i’m not one to give up
but i am known for knowing
when i’m fighting a losing battle
and maybe it’s simply time
to give myself
a [day’s]
break
wake
myself up
with poetry
widen my eyes
with words
pump my veins
with phrases
of soft rhymes
and alliterations
and pick up the pace
of morning
with stanzas of
longing
and beauty
wake
myself up
with poetry
a puppy
eating ice cream
and then the whole container
what a treat
~~~
sometimes i worry
that i’m wasting my writing talents
on publishing in a blog
but then i am reminded
of folks who may have thought
i wasted my acting talents
on community theatre
and who is wasting
and who is benefiting
in either of those situations?
is it simply
elitist?
classist?
or simply the whole vibe of white supremacist culture
to give some places
more standing
than others?
i suppose what i’m saying is
tho i wish more folks would read my words
and i saw more accolades and admissions of quality
(moreso for my own validation/vindication/curiosity)
i’ll continue to place it
here
for anyone to come across it
who may want or need it
(including me)
~~~
late night writing
(ok
again
not really that late)
toasty fireplace
cozy tea
coffee ready to be placed in the fridge
for tomorrow morning
when i’ll write all over again
kipventures 