after Diane Seuss  

Frankly, Brooklyn, you’re too damn much. Elaborate  

cardamom bun and a cappuccino that too easily  

deflates. I was thrifting, now retreating to a couch  

where I feel I must chat up the couple next to me.  

It has to do with Kierkegaard and, of course,  

over-extracts from there. The one, a philosopher.  

The other, a poet. Oh, you too? And have you read  

Diane Seuss as he pulls this gem from his bag.  

Stark, double-spaced sonnets march in royal defiance  

of titles across 130 nonchalant pages. Each ending  

a slap somewhere—the thigh, my heart, often the  

face. Oh, Diane—you crack of black pepper! Such  

serendipities in this unpredictable life of mine. My  

existence, my finishing sugar—you so raw and fine.

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.

When a long day ends, 
as I slide into our bed, 
I feel I’m now home.

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

One day a voice fell

as the wind chimes in rainstorms

wading through pictures

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