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rainbowk"My navel. Check it out."
Just a blank
this canvas, some old squeezed out paint,
some brushes, used a little
a sketch of yet another
same old same old painting
abandoned out of boredom
god, it's like there's nothing there
like I can only write if I am in the depths of my despair
or in the heights of new love
nothing much to say about
makedinnerdothedishesfoldlaundry
perhaps I should rhapsodize about
the way laundry looks tumbling in the dryer?
or I should tell you what it means
to see the counter cleared
that internal sigh of relief/release
it's not that this is unimportant
it's just that I'm too busy doing it
to do anything else
and I still want to do something great
or important
and it's all very well to say
that raising a kid is important, or great (at least potentially)
it's all very well to say it, but
if it goes swimmingly well, who will know or care?
it'll be the moments in which I did it badly that he'll care about
like every kid ever
like me with my parents
we take unconditional perfect love as our due
something we need to acknowledge only in the deviation
it's work I wanted and want to do
but I can't help but acknowledge that it has real effects on my choices
it's not theoretical, not an interesting intellectual exercise
it's this real thing, all money and work and laundry and time
and money
and like every parent ever
I do feel trapped by it
I chafe at its restrictions
I want something for myself out of all of this
I don't even know what that means
I know that I'm selfish
I know that I'm right, but being right never helps
(I am often unhelpfully right)
and what if he is merely ordinary
just as I am, if I am honest with myself
smart yes, I suspect we both are
but for myself, unmotivated, unambitious
too awkward by far, and prickly
narcissistic maybe
both un- and overemotional
what's the point of smart
with everything else that we are
I can't live through him
even if I do parenting perfectly
(and I never will)
he's a person, not a project, not some shined up replica of me
I'd never want to fall into that trap
living through his successes
as though they were some meaningful measure of myself
I have nothing to say
perhaps that's the most meaningful measure
*Personal Poem Writing Month. One mostly unedited poem (almost) every day in November.
Just a blank
this canvas, some old squeezed out paint,
some brushes, used a little
a sketch of yet another
same old same old painting
abandoned out of boredom
god, it's like there's nothing there
like I can only write if I am in the depths of my despair
or in the heights of new love
nothing much to say about
makedinnerdothedishesfoldlaundry
perhaps I should rhapsodize about
the way laundry looks tumbling in the dryer?
or I should tell you what it means
to see the counter cleared
that internal sigh of relief/release
it's not that this is unimportant
it's just that I'm too busy doing it
to do anything else
and I still want to do something great
or important
and it's all very well to say
that raising a kid is important, or great (at least potentially)
it's all very well to say it, but
if it goes swimmingly well, who will know or care?
it'll be the moments in which I did it badly that he'll care about
like every kid ever
like me with my parents
we take unconditional perfect love as our due
something we need to acknowledge only in the deviation
it's work I wanted and want to do
but I can't help but acknowledge that it has real effects on my choices
it's not theoretical, not an interesting intellectual exercise
it's this real thing, all money and work and laundry and time
and money
and like every parent ever
I do feel trapped by it
I chafe at its restrictions
I want something for myself out of all of this
I don't even know what that means
I know that I'm selfish
I know that I'm right, but being right never helps
(I am often unhelpfully right)
and what if he is merely ordinary
just as I am, if I am honest with myself
smart yes, I suspect we both are
but for myself, unmotivated, unambitious
too awkward by far, and prickly
narcissistic maybe
both un- and overemotional
what's the point of smart
with everything else that we are
I can't live through him
even if I do parenting perfectly
(and I never will)
he's a person, not a project, not some shined up replica of me
I'd never want to fall into that trap
living through his successes
as though they were some meaningful measure of myself
I have nothing to say
perhaps that's the most meaningful measure
*Personal Poem Writing Month. One mostly unedited poem (almost) every day in November.
