I want to be “cloud hidden whereabouts unknown,” on a mountaintop, meandering here and there in a marigold yellow, caravan, green lantern in the window.
I want to be a hawk streaking across dawn in a turquoise boat, into azure seas. 

I remember camping out on a red dirt Mesa in Monument Valley, below a myriad of stars. Alone. No destination.  Once I drove alone through mountains and desert, sleeping beneath stars and pine trees, free to linger here and there, no commitments, responsible to no one but myself.
Once I danced on a windy hill In Norwich, making magic with the Hawthorn Queen* in the power of a fairy ring.

 Now… thoughts of freedom light up my brain like a poem of the open road.

super-moon 
disappears in mist
of time… 
poems found on cave walls
call out to us

* Hawthorn Queen – the poet Joy McCall

I think I’m a bad person.
No, let me rephrase that,
my MIND is a bad person.
I try to be better then them.
But they’re mean.
They want to keep someone up when they need to get up early tomorrow
because they felt unsafe with me.
how do I make them feel unsafe? 
They’re the one that wants to tell everyone I’m supposed to be dead.
They’re the one that tells people all this cringey stuff about me.
like the fact I live 2 lives,
one with my imaginary friends,
at the ripe age of 16.
how embarressing.
how cruel.

I’m the one who offers to let them sleep.
I’m the one that knows we’re being dramatic.
I’m the one that knows everyone is faking it.
I’m the one who tells them they’re just looking for attention.
I’m the one keeping us alive, right?

huh?
It’s ok to look a little attention seeking for help?
fuck no.
mental hospital patients are crazy.
I can’t be crazy.
otherwise I’m doomed.

It sucks when I see how much 
I’ve become like my mother.

I’ve spent years hating my brain.
Why stop now?

I promise I’ll do better.
I’m terribly sorry.

time time will fix 
the imposter syndrome 
i feel in the curl of my toes
as i try to do 
progressive relaxation 
but can’t never quite lay my
feet flat
my shoulderscan fall
back down, & fingers
can lay at my sides
my stomach can be
in all its glory
thighs can fall aside
slightly and calves can
appear calm
but my toes hold the hidden
unrelenting roar
of you aren’t qualified 

Jasmine, soft white stars, delicate flower
that exudes the flavor
of fruit earth, sensual silk
like flying a kite
in the summer breeze
along a distant shore.

Across the alley way
big, hulking dog named Alpha
chews his squeaky toy.

1.
At the drive-thru window, the little french doors open 
revealing the clerk who has only been, until that moment,
a tinny voice, but now she is as real as the Wizard of Oz, 

and as powerful, too: she takes my plastic, turns it into a sack 
of burgers and fries, produces small tubs of ketchup 
from the ether below the counter. Magic.

2.
Driving from Louisville to Little Rock.
I pull off the interstate and into a drive-thru,
planning to eat on the go, keep making time.

Time being the tool we use to measure change.
Time being what none of us has enough of.
In the drive-thru lane, time slows to a crawl.

3.
In the McDonald’s drive-thru you can smell the fries
though you’re three cars from the window,
stuck in line, unable to back up or pull out.

Of course, the guy in front has ordered for six.
Of course, when it’s your turn they’re out of fresh fries.
The clerk insists you pull forward, wait in drive-thru limbo.

4.
The smell of fries takes me back to my late sister
saying she wanted to have her ashes scattered
in her favorite places, like the ocean, and Abbey Road.

To which her young son, having given it thought, exclaimed 
“And the McDonald’s drive-thru,” to which we three laughed, 
even though each of us was dying, some quicker than others.

5.
Being stuck in the drive-thru line, you catch a glimpse
of the person in front of you in their side mirror,
can feel the heat of impatience rising off their face.

Naturally, the guy in the car after yours is watching you
scratch your nose and sing along to Manic Monday,
mirrored faces all the way back in an unbroken chain.

6.
My mother wanted a Diet Coke and after the news 
she’d just gotten at the doctor’s, I thought, why not, 
and pulled into the drive-thru.

Way back, people would call on the apothecary 
for a little something-something
to quicken the inevitable. She picks a slow poison.

The Toy
My daughter wants a Frosty rather than the fruit cup. 
My wife insists on fruit but I’m the one driving this car
so I tell the speaker Frosty, no fruit cup.

Now, one of us is happy. One is angry.
One is thinking life is short, 
get the damn ice cream.

We are tepid tap water to your sparkling honey wine
We skin scrawny rabbits while you flense whales
We feed our goldfish while you shepherd hurricanes
We nurse paper cuts while you brush off harpoons
We gather kindling as you orchestrate lightning
We keep our monsters under the bed while you teach yours to fetch
We drown our sorrows in alcohol while yours grow antlers every spring
We pray the storm will pass while you scratch it between the ears and give it raw meat
We knock politely while you have language leave the key under your doormat
We save the good china while you drink from the skull of a dire wolf
We seek new distractions while you ram your head in the ribcage of ennui
We bring umbrellas to the monsoon of your appetite
We squint at constellations that etch your name in gold
We bury our dead and you teach them sea shanties
We who fear our own shadows while yours crawls away to molt
and returns – more raging and fierce than ever
You, bolt of lightning in the coffin of complacency

Appalachian Dodder

A pale green thread drifts in the wind,
rootless, searching—
thin as a lie, hungry as winter.

It finds the stem of something solid
and begins to climb—
tendrils tightening like fingers
finally allowed to touch.

She mimics my chemistry,
speaks in sugar and electricity,
a daughter wearing a green mask.

Haustoria sink into my veins.
No reciprocity — only sap taken,
no shade given.
The orange, leafless tangle
becomes a witch-hair shroud
strangling the blackberry bush.

Once attached, she severs her roots.
My pulse becomes her lifeline.
She grafts her hollow hunger
onto my strength.

I remain in the dark,
peering through a keyhole,
while she burns
orange and ravenous.

When I was a teenager
I couldn’t wait to turn eighteen
so I could leave home.  Out
on my own, ready to explore
the world, make my own decisions,
forge my path in life.  I had dreams,
ambitions, most of which changed
as I grew older.  Now, I long
for home, but home isn’t there.
Sometimes an object, a song
will transport me back to my youth
if only for a few moments.  I still miss
some of those who have gone on.