Flying things should fly
I am good, I am grounded.
I've been trying to swallow my throat heart for 22 seconds now.
There are words in the space it left when it jumped up there.
Earthquake panicked bluebird words in my birdcage chest
Holey battered moth wing words in my light bulb chest
Angry bee words in my pillowcase chest instead.
Desperate for flight
The moon
To spin honey prose
about God living somewhere in Ohio.
About three dog recliner nights
and three dog storm chasing days.
Lost front yard shoes running from gargoyles
and train track glitter shoes braving train track bears.
About patchwork pants and a guitar
and then two decades of too many miles.
Trapped, blind, striped words for punching those miles in the face
finding hope in Oklahoma classifieds
dusty desert solitude
a New Orleans taxi driver
ghosts in West Virginia
all night diners in Columbus.
For making bullfrogs jealous
(and friends
and boyfriends
and family
and internet strangers)
For feeling alone together
wearing someone else's face.
The glass jar wasn't on my bucket list, but really should have been.
Same goes for having a conversation about past lives during toilet surgery.
Is there a name for a list of things you didn't know you needed on your bucket list
but found out you did?
Maybe that's what I'm trying to write.
My gas station bravery is on empty
I traded Jupiter fireflies for scattering ashtray cockroaches.
I'm still braking around blind curves for blinded horses
still counting streetlamps from thirty thousand feet
still apologizing to the vines
(but not the friends
or boyfriends
or family
or internet strangers)
And the same songs keep playing over and over.
I still can't get the cage door open, but I'm bending the bars.
The pillowcase knot's tied tight, but I've got scissors somewhere in my junk drawer.
Sometimes I can't see the moon for the porch light, but I know how to pitch a tent.
I guess what really matters (even if I don't really pray to Ohio God)
is that now I know I don't wish on stars
I wish on planets.
And sometimes still the Oklahoma classifieds.
.
I've been trying to swallow my throat heart for 22 seconds now.
There are words in the space it left when it jumped up there.
Earthquake panicked bluebird words in my birdcage chest
Holey battered moth wing words in my light bulb chest
Angry bee words in my pillowcase chest instead.
Desperate for flight
The moon
To spin honey prose
about God living somewhere in Ohio.
About three dog recliner nights
and three dog storm chasing days.
Lost front yard shoes running from gargoyles
and train track glitter shoes braving train track bears.
About patchwork pants and a guitar
and then two decades of too many miles.
Trapped, blind, striped words for punching those miles in the face
finding hope in Oklahoma classifieds
dusty desert solitude
a New Orleans taxi driver
ghosts in West Virginia
all night diners in Columbus.
For making bullfrogs jealous
(and friends
and boyfriends
and family
and internet strangers)
For feeling alone together
wearing someone else's face.
The glass jar wasn't on my bucket list, but really should have been.
Same goes for having a conversation about past lives during toilet surgery.
Is there a name for a list of things you didn't know you needed on your bucket list
but found out you did?
Maybe that's what I'm trying to write.
My gas station bravery is on empty
I traded Jupiter fireflies for scattering ashtray cockroaches.
I'm still braking around blind curves for blinded horses
still counting streetlamps from thirty thousand feet
still apologizing to the vines
(but not the friends
or boyfriends
or family
or internet strangers)
And the same songs keep playing over and over.
I still can't get the cage door open, but I'm bending the bars.
The pillowcase knot's tied tight, but I've got scissors somewhere in my junk drawer.
Sometimes I can't see the moon for the porch light, but I know how to pitch a tent.
I guess what really matters (even if I don't really pray to Ohio God)
is that now I know I don't wish on stars
I wish on planets.
And sometimes still the Oklahoma classifieds.
.