a kip home
a home for kips
the kippiest house to ever house a kip
but where/what/how is it?
~~~
do i feel better
(je me sens plus bien)
when i write in french
(quand j’écris en français)
because i don’t have to think as deeply?
(parce que je ne dois pas penser que profondément?)
–> est-ce que je me sens mieux quand j’écris en français parce que je n’ai pas à réfléchir aussi profondément?
~~~
someday
(maybe someday soon?)
i’ll get to create
the secret garden
of my dreams
once again
my frantic creativity
is failing me
this morning page time
and i know i have things i wanted to write about
and i know i have things i needed to write about
and i know i have things i could be writing about
but the sky feels grey, not blue
and the world seems tipped slightly askew
and i can’t conceive of how long this off-ness will last
(nor if it’s truly a case of of perception,
or if it could simply be a time of transition
asleep to awake
un-caffeinated to caffeinated
cat-lap-less to cat-lap-full
[and let me tell you, those claws in my legs sure helped me wake a little more])
so i suppose i’ll keep writing.
hoping things start making more sense,
hoping the coffee soaks its way to my veins,
pet this cat until my fingers find more words to write
(and forgive her when her affectionate head bumps a few letters out of place)
because this is my life;
i made it.
mine.
i have been filled
recently
with inspiration
true inspiration
flowing inspiration
from all over
and this morning
i had
*something*
i wanted to write about
to explore in words
to contemplate out loud
[on doc]
but it’s left me
dry
and i’ve hated everything i’ve started so far
so maybe a prompt is the way to go???
~~~
are poems of dreams
really more interesting
than a telling of that same
dream?
a prompt told me to write
out
a dream i remember
in as much detail
as i can remember
but here’s the catch:
my dreams
(like my thoughts)
are conceptual,
abstract
(at least in what i remember,
retain;
the dreams themselves are pretty mundane)
i remember
[maybe]
[possibly]
dreaming of the pants
i decided to wear today
deep pockets
large legs
flowing around
but still split
my nicknamed ‘gender euphoria pants’
because they are technically genderless
and anyone can wear them
it’s just a lot of people don’t
and i think my gender is not aligned
with the male or the female
the man or the woman
but instead
i’d call my gender
Cryptid.
(so anything that sets me
ever so slightly apart,
that makes you go “i think that was a human,
but i’m not entirely sure”
that’s me
that’s my gender
that’s my euphoria)
but i think i dreamed of these pants
reaching into the pocket
not finding the bottom exactly where i expected
and maybe there was something important there
and maybe i did eventually find it
and maybe there were other people/places/things inside this dream
but what i remember
are the pants
and the reach
and that’s it.
was that actually interesting content???
~~~
(i wonder if there are any of our animals
who are trans
and would rather be
“misgendered” by strangers
than have us
continually
“correct” them.
i think this might be why
i so rarely actually correct the stranger.
i’ll use the pronoun i know them as,
but not make a big deal out of it
(unless we’re at the vet
and it might affect the type of care)
but just in case
the animal gets some gender euphoria
every time a stranger
refers to them
by the “opposite gender”
than i know them as
i don’t want to come barreling in
with a correction
that is not
actually
correct.)
after a whole week
of living in
the slam poem i created,
orated,
and sent,
it feels strange to come back to this
daily task
and the ask
of simply writing how my thoughts attack
(and, as you can see,
my verse is still solidly in slam,
but how long that’ll stay,
is a question i am
unable to answer
at this time.)
but continue the flow,
maybe i’ll discover a way to recover
the thoughts i’d lost in the far reaches, corners, attics and basements
of my meandering mind
and find
the mode
to just
Go.
concentrate first on what you’re writing
don’t think about how to perform it
nor what people are going to think of it
nor what people will say to you
sunday will arrive far sooner than you expect,
why make it arrive earlier
by anticipating everything that will happen?
(maybe that’s just how my brain works?)
(but it seems very, very unhelpful)
~~~
i don’t know why
french café music
calms me so
but it sure does
so here it plays
morning after morning
picking up a few more words every dawn
surprising myself by how much i understand
hoping one day to catch it all.
~~~
am i ever going to attack
full, epic, long-form, big damn poetry
again?
(i suppose i just did,
what with the monologue assignment
i just wrote slam poetry for,
and i suppose i shouldn’t
count out
the big poems
sitting in this giant document
just waiting for revisions
and posting)
but it confuses me,
this ebb and flow of poetry
of how some days words slip and flow
and some days i must pull and pull and pull
and what that all means for myself
and me
and my creativity…
shorter time
to write my
morning poetry
today,
and the rest
of the day
is filled with
zoom zoom zoom
(but in-person,
not via Zoom)
pondering
jobs
and
houses
and
subways
and
STEM
and i still have to
write
the writing
that i’m both
apprehensive
of
and
excited
about.
(so, i guess, let’s do this)
i’ve gotten so used to this computer,
this keyboard,
adding extra letters
where they’re not needed,
absorbing strange autocorrects
into my soul
(i will never, now, write “feels like” without part of me thinking to myself “eellike”)
(and i know to watch for extra “o”s in every “to” “on” and “now”;
always expecting the unexpected “tooo” “Ono” and “noon”)
what would happen
if i received
a new
typing
machine?
connect
with
your words
yourself
your past
your present
(maybe even your future)
all you have to do is
connect
with
your words.
~~~
every evening i go to bed
expecting to wake up
and be hit
struck
stampeded
by inspiration,
and every morning i wake up
and i’m still
simply
tired.
~~~
(is it time yet?
time to contemplate what makes folks ‘like’ the poetry i post?
is it time to admit that, maybe i’m not writing for an audience,
but i’ve probably started posting for one.)
no thank you, words,
i would not like to listen to you
as i try to get in touch with the
words in my own brain
as the caffeine filters in
ever so slowly
and i [hopefully] find a way to wake up
and put some more words here
and a few more words there
and welcome a few more words in
and get a few more words out…
so
no thank you, words,
words in music,
you are not welcome quite yet
this morning,
please wait your turn.
the first
of any month
scares the crap out of me
i’m so much more able to ignore
the steady, streaming, passage of time
if the dates just keep flowing.
but the reset,
the sudden jump back to single digits,
the shock to my system as i readjust…
write new dates,
set new goals,
pay new bills,
(does it never end?)
~~~
you’d think
for someone who has new years in their top favorite holidays
new beginnings wouldn’t hurt so damn badly
~~~
poetry about something real
(kind of like prose)
flows out of me smoothly,
effortlessly,
the words coming even without me pondering them
the appearance on the document
pristine
and as i go
i think more and more
and harder and harder
and second guess
and try to have a nice ending
(are poems made for tidy endings?)
and i fizzle,
or overanalyze,
and what started as a journey
ends in near virtual reality
can my poems ever truly reflect
what’s happening
in my brain?
kipventures 