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?]
writing poetry
to local news
and fake laughter
and small chit chatter
writing poetry
as the world falls apart
and explodes
and explodes
and explodes
half a globe away
writing poetry as my life
has fallen to inverse-seeing
and yet i still feel stable
and yet i still feel
nearly able
to be happy
writing poetry
far away from home
but back in a home
i once knew better
than i’ll ever
know myself
writing poetry
that’s my through line
that’s my safety net
that’s my commonality
and only a few of my people
know it
read it
know me
from it
but that’s ok
since i’m writing poetry
[mostly]
for me
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.
after a few days
of none morning pages
perhaps today will be a day
of one morning pages
sometimes
you just have to write
some nonsense
before the words
start to
make some sense
in your body
(in your brain)
when
will i get my
writing
back?
my churning out poem
after poem
of things
even i think
are gold?
my extended long poems
studying a single subject
until i learn
the poem wasn’t even about that
to begin with —
it was about some emotion
i’ve been feeling
but not identifying
for a while yet?
my ease
of writing poetry
every morning
without fail
without procrastination
without this trudge
through molasses
in my mind?
when?
when?
when?
going through
a ‘gak’ phase
a ‘gulp’
a ‘meh’
a ‘throw up a little in my mouth
at my own words and thoughts and talents’
time
a momentary loss
of perceived
good-at-writing
(at least from my own perspective)
and i need
to remind
myself
it happens,
it happens;
it’s temporary,
it’s temporary.
(and for now
maybe
indulge in some
bad
writing)
i feel as though i’ve
run a mile in my mind and
i still can’t seem to find
any kind
of through line
or success in a poem of mine
perhaps this is the type of morning to
hide under the sheets until
i feel human once
again
silly covers
of popular music
set to epic orchestration
and interesting rhythmic interpretation —
a perfect way to start
this first august morning
can i
will i
work without warmup
can i
must i
do the writing to do the work
can i
should i
be a lone ranger in my lifetime
can i
do i
do anything
i could
kipventures 