my good intentions
i’m ripping the intentions out of the chest of the grindset mindset, still beating, still warm. i’m putting them into the stitched up corpse of an ideal evening. the storms will roll in, lightning and all, and i will watch, hot cocoa in hand and windows open. the sun is going down and the sky is dark and orange and grey. electricity will strike and light up what i have created. that for which i have toiled.
when i’m trying to say that i’m trying to have more peaceful time, more quiet time, i don’t mean it in some happy-go-lucky, wishy-washy way. i don’t mean it in a where ever the wind may blow kind of a way. (the wind, it seems, blows towards hell these days). i mean it with intentionality, like the intentionality needed to aim a shotgun. and then fire.
why does poetry feel less productive than rot? is it because rot is something that happens to a person (if you let it) and when it ends you can shake your fist at the sky, at whoever is responsible (it's you, most likely) for putting you under? poetry, however, is a choice, and one i have to walk through guilt and programming to make. i don’t want to take the time to do frivolous things, so instead time is taken from me. i'm a victim of theft, but i can only be so mad when the doors were left unlocked. i had to schedule this, you know. i had to carve out time and carve away distraction. it seems pointless, really. i’m throwing enrichment into my own cage, the zoo keeper of my own time. it's not as useful as food but it makes the same list. it must. its not meat for the tiger (the tiger being my health) but a popsicle made of ice and chicken blood and bits of spare meat. pointless, by some measures, but the weather is getting warmer and i can only take so many naps. time to wake up, stand up, and be cured of lethargy. time to play with my food.