freeze state (things are going well)
I sit in silence.
my atoms remember the reverberation of music and conversation.
I wait on the couch
for internal permission to go to bed.
the balloons will deflate in the corner over the course of several weeks.
I sit in silence.
my atoms remember the reverberation of music and conversation.
I wait on the couch
for internal permission to go to bed.
the balloons will deflate in the corner over the course of several weeks.
I taste the strange prospect of no longer lying
to collect a check.
Anything is possible with a typewriter or guitar
in my hands, and yet I’m stalled
at the intersection of different languages,
looking into wild nowhere
through half-open doors.
Of course flying and falling are different things,
but are they, though?
I’m a tourist everywhere I go.
I belong to the mountains
Though I love to travel and
See the world, this is where
I will always long to be, this
Sacred place that rasied me
The place that has molded
Every fiber of my being
I feel most alive here, where
I can be my truest self, the me
That is wild and feral, and has
Always been; the me who shies
Away from noise, crowds, and
Fast paced living; those things
Are not for me, not long term
I prefer the slow quiet of home
Wind rustling the leaves of trees
Cool water winding through a
Holler creek with wild blackberry
Brambles growing heavy with
Fruist; dewy grass and packed
Red clay earth is where I belong
I never went down to the creek that much
I preferred walking down to the river
Watching the barges and the birds
Looking for glitter trash and pretty rocks
Smelling pizza in the evening and swinging on the swings
With my pre-K buddies
whole reed-baskets full
uncountable peppers
wagon red, Kelly green, lemon yellow
mandarin orange, seed-pregnant
vested in limy leaves impossible
to snap off each crevasse-skinned
bulbous-shaped fruit for a taste dare:
keep a water cracker rescue near
for tame ones, raw onion to save
your tongue for the wildest burns
each first cracked-half bursts
in the shower of the kitchen sink
sudden coughs huh, huh, surprise
your throat fire-lined, vision blurred,
seeds spew like confetti, spiral
down the drain, lost garden magic
never forget they say, yet
happens often whether we want it to or not
just yesterday
you forgot to pick that, well, you know
and the whosiwhatsit on the car
nope, still three weeks and no mechanic visit
like you promised yourself, oh well
take a breath, don’t worry
there’s always tomorrow
whichever day it might turn out to be
maybe you want me to water your garden
and help you weed your plants
and maybe set some deterrents aside
to deal with the aphids and ants
and maybe you’d wonder how far you’d grow
if given enough
room
and light
and the chance
and perhaps this poem is me
wondering and wishing
that i’d planted this seed
in advance
Each day I grapple
with the Force anew, and if
I find small succor
in the Light, at least I do
not fall, face first, into Dark.
