COYOTE BLOOD
poetry, art, mistakes, music, love, visions and everything...
My daydreams are wild in adulthood.
Did you just learn Command + Shirt + N?
The Triangulation of Time
Multipotentialite
n. someone with many interests and creative pursuits.
One of the values I hold closest is variety.
I thrive when engaging in multiple endeavors at once.
I’m most happy when I have diverse challenges to tackle
and, as it relates to my work, I really do think it gives me my edge.
This is not new either.
Growing up I loved playing multiple roles
(athlete, artist, goof, restaurant employee).
In contrast, I’ve found I’m the least happy
when I put all my focus in one singular direction.
I recently learned of the term, multipotentialite —
finally a word I can use to wrap up the way my brain works best.
final drinks at bars where the patrons get a little sentimental with their jukebox money around closing time
so I try to write in a way that’s relatable to anyone with any problem.
Since getting sober, I have made an effort to accept the circumstances of my life for what they are,
and to remain engaged with and curious about them,
even if they don’t conform to stereotypes about how writers are supposed to live.
I write puns for ecommerce products for a living,
and then pretend poems for myself,
also asking famous and emerging musicians super silly questions.
All while trying to squash the idea that you have to be completely chaotic
and tortured to make interesting art.
Friday CD Listening: John Coltrane's “A Love Supreme”
You Aren’t Killing Time. Time Is Killing You.
cute poem, might delete
today is only today for today
I wanna be a shoulder
March meets me with dreams of you
*Hammer sold separately
But I made the Grim Reaper’s job hell.
aside from the sheer, gobstopping sadness of it all...
Some poets are defined by their tragedies.
Others simply carry on in spite of them.
As if the bitter details cut too harshly
against their docile image to become lore,
I am unburdened by expectations of coolness or relevance,
and my initial too-cool-for-school demeanor
disguises some undeniable riffs,
the poetry's signature heartworms,
despite decades of exposure,
hopefully never seem to burn out.
Grateful AF
Remain with Stilpo
I'm lean, clean—if a little sleepy.
I fuse the laid-back sound of the 1990s
with millennial steel, Brooklyn bullshit,
and countrypolitan filigree.
I am the Descartes of anxiety.
I feel tall in the morning,
and small in the evening.
I look like the kind of guy
who read Fight Club in college,
but I was retyping The Great Gatsby
in community college.
I am an idiot,
But at least I don’t have an ego.
Though I am scared,
I have no choice
But to keep chasing bravery.
Back on my reggae breakfasts,
my punk rock lunches.
Though I am scarred,
I have plenty of heart,
and hustle.
I remain with Stilpo,
because my soul can't be killed.
In these dumb poems,
I will live forever.
Mornings
rock bottom in a bookstore
Sure, some people find success early.
When they came to success was not that important.
The world needs more poetry and less "influencers"
Blood spills on barren pages, Love dances with poetic rages. Each word a death, each line a life, Submitting poems for the slaughter.
With sweaty hands and hopeful sighs, We send our comedies to die in distant skies. Through self-doubt and lethargy, our words take the wish's leap, others' hearts will keep.
For every rejection, a scar added to soul, For every acceptance, a scar added to the universe. We write, along bridges burned, sending off poems to be judged so our very existence can endure.
Kendra Jean, you should submit here, because the world needs your solidarity. You are a damn good poet and I am honored to know it.