While I was Nomadic, 7 years disappeared.
My body re-engineered.
She fell in love with somebody who isn't me
Who lives far away, but hey, at least she don't leave
While I was nomadic, The vegetables rotted,
as did the plants potted.
And now in my own city I feel like a foreigner
Spent too much time searching for that magnetic north
Count the years, more than 5. The tread of some 10-20 tires
The tired that comes with repetitive sunrise
The limp rise from a stranger’s fuck,
and stranger still, the search for something yet untouched.
I saw the Autumn leaves before almost anybody else I know this September.
I was driving I-70 East in and out of West Virginia
and you just turn a corner and you are there, falling in love with the end of summer.
Anticipating the changes coming, Age stunted by the running
And there's something about country-crossing during periods of season change
With Saturn nipping day by state at your wings that leaves you questioning the strength of your feet.
It took only one week.
But while I was gone, the Pennsylvania leaves began to bronze dropping their yellow fingers to comfort the dying blades of grass on suburban lawns.
Almost every highway in this country I've drove on.
A million miles of asphalt passed, and still, this is my first love poem.
Almost every word I've ever written was wrote down while in motion.
While I was nomadic, heart became where home isn't.
I left my compass in the shadow of my electronic GPS
Pressing back, back, back, view map.
Checking off turns in a long list of least direct.
And again, I'm Gretel on the move
Dropping hindsight morsels of regret I leave to mark my missteps
And I'm tripping on the apologies that come with following your dreams.
I can't tell you how sorry I am, to my friends, to my fans.
I don't come around enough. Always sadness weaved into my new stuff.
I’ve been selfish. Every picture a self-portrait.
Every conversation an import taxed at the door.
An awkward business you dismiss as the cost of listening.
And you do it over and over again. Allowing me to do what I love for a living.
How do I show you due gratitude?
You picked up my frayed bits and built nests to ease the fall of failing altitude.
I never meant to disrespect you.
There's rarely a moment I ceased the mantra of “Fuck, I meant to call you.”
I've been distracted by the ease of listening only to my own breathing.
While I was nomadic, I missed my brother turning 30
but beared witness to the birth of over two dozen seasons.
While I was nomadic, I began believing in this:
My God exists a triton split of faith, inner-conscience and coincidence.
Don’t need Jesus or minions.
I've testified every close call slip on asphalt
Cadenced my confessionals to strange footsteps in bathroom stalls.
In the west the highway's a corridor.
I want to grasp the hands of the ones I love around the girth of a giant sequoia.
Until the bark grows over. Until this anxious pace dissipates.
Because it's a rat race really.
The spinning of the earth keeping us grounded to the dirt.
We're products of centrifugal force and last October we sent a missile to the moon and declared war on our anchor.
As a poet, it's hard not to see the metaphor.
As a Pisces it's hard not to dream of anti-gravity.
Because I've done summersaults in the sea
and the sensation's always settled better
than combining words like roots and feet.
The bees are disappearing.
The moths succumbing to the tired that comes with circular flight towards lunacy.
They are winged creatures and they are my simile.
See I don't think I can ever stop moving.
But it is a well-documented fact that one day I'll lie down and forever sleep.
And every moment I've ever lived will become hearsay after that last heartbeat.
And all those times I've spent alone… free of witness testimony and owner.
Returned to the road,
The long phonics of growth,To be recollected by poets
in spiral notebooks on dominant knees.
And how sweet. That release. Of language will be.
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