or needn’t poetry have a point?
we’re all just bumbling through
in these systems we’ve created
everything is made up
and maybe
that’s why i create
[because i’m not allowed to make whole new systems
so i make words fit my needs
rather than
the other way around]
[or something]
poetry-writing
poetry-thinking
poetry-mulling and pondering and shirking
duties to home and work
in order to write and ponder and mull and think
and write some more
i really do need to
see if anyone else would ever
want to read these silly poems
where do i even start to look
when i don’t have a social media
in which to peruse
and obsess
and screenshot
and never ever ever apply to?
i think
one more poem
i think
one more stream
of the consciousness
of the mind wandering
of the fingers tappity typing
all the way across the screen
one more poem
of waking myself up
the addition
of composition
to my coffee
and hydration
the combination
is what helps me
feel
slightly
more awake
slightly
more alive
slightly more ready
to make this day
one
that i can at least survive
[someday
i may just
thrive]
but today, i just have to aim
for one more poem
at
a
time
i am sitting
i am writing
i have nothing i need to be doing
at this exact moment
[plenty i should be doing
whenever i have the time]
but the animals are fed
and the kips are being watered
[by tea and coffee and actual water]
and i am trying something new
with my writing time
perhaps this could be a thing i do
every morning page morning
[but the point is to not plan
the point is not to plan
the point is not
the future
it is
now]
take stock in what is in this moment
the snow falling in big, fluffy flakes outside
the forced air heat in the kitchen blowing
the ambient music twanging from
our labeled “d20 speaker” so named for the
neon sign it is placed above
i take a sip of coffee
for the taste
but i probably should be sipping my water
for the hydration
for there’s a tickle in my throat
that i don’t know where it came from
[could have been passed to me,
could be the dry air around me
could be my allergy affecting me
in a whole different way this time]
the rumble of a plane
so low and loud both kips glance out the window
but it’s gone now
kip in their keith haring sweatshirt
me in my cozy yellow and black plaid sweater
the puppy, who devoured her breakfast, laying down right next to my chair
the cat is…somewhere…
and the music that has just come on is one i know from a film or something
and i am going to look to see what it’s called/who it’s by
so i can remember for the future
[though this poem is not about the future]
experience by ludovico einaudi
which i know from something in my past
that i can never quite remember
[but this poem is not about the past]
and i’ve already surpassed my word count goal
with only one [experimental-ish] poem
but this poem is not about the goals
or anything but
this moment
there are parts of thoughts in my head
that spin around endlessly
that go too fast for even me to see
and there’s another part of my mind
that is so damn quiet sometimes
that i don’t actually know
if there’s anything going on there
and perhaps they are both one in the same
that the fast thoughts go so fast
the blur makes them seem
nonexistent
[can ones own mind be too fast for even that person to catch up?
it seems counterintuitive
but also, we know so little about the human brain
and how thoughts and souls actually work
and we may never
but this poem is not about our own knowledge
or about what we may someday find
this poem is about finding
exactly what’s happening
in this
now]
the problem with an experimental poem
about the moment
is that the moment keeps going
so there is no concise way to end
other than just
stopping.
yesterday it was so easy to write
and write and write a whole ass poem
in one sitting
i just sat down
and did it
and this morning, the struggle is the
realest of real
and i can’t seem to even think of a subject matter
to write about, much less actually
write
it
and i
am simply adding word by word
by
word
instead of going with the flow of the poem
thinking line
and stanza at a time
and i’m
simply
frustrated
at myself
still haven’t done much
morning poetry writing
this morning
[none at all
yesterday
morning]
but that’s ok
that’s ok
it’s just a personal goal
and the point is to write
and eventually catch up
i can easily do that after therapy
or in the evening
if i so choose
[or even tomorrow]
it’s just me
it’s just for me
it’s all ok
it’s all ok
trying to write out
something
while my mind is reeling with
everything
but somehow i can think of absolutely
nothing
to try to write out to say…
maybe time to write
maybe time
to
not
but all i know is
i have tea
beside me
and music
coming from this apparatus
on which i write these words
and i could write for another hour and twenty minutes
or i could
not
and it wouldn’t make much of a difference
for anyone other than
myself
but for myself
it could make
all the difference
in the world
sometimes i write things
and i can follow my own train of thought
like “ah, i see this scent/song/experience
reminded me of this other one
and now i gotta work backwards
through poetry
to find all the connections, but they’re there
i see them
clear
as
day”
and then there are times where i’ll just random write words
and even then, sometimes, the underlying meaning
or at least the underlying inspiration
is right there for me to see
clearly
and yet
there are other times
[like very very recently]
where i’ll write a thing
and it’s like my fingers had a mind of their own
and i’ll look at the poem
and think to myself
“what the actual fuck?”
“where in the multiverse did that come from?”
“am i even in the same body as these appendages of mine???”
but i suppose that’s what makes poetry
kinda fun
sometimes
i’ve always used poetry
to warm up for writing prose
but last night i wrote prose,
and this morning feel invigorated
to write poetry once more
and perhaps it is not the type of words i type
but instead simply the act of writing itself
which warms and invigorates and excites me
for future writings
[perhaps
perhaps
perhaps
i can call myself
a writer]
kipventures 