Over the next few weeks, I will be sharing a collection of poems written by yours truly--hope you enjoy!
Musings of an Interstellar Nomad
Oh what I might
Give to grab a hand
Full of stars and
Cast them at my
Feet. What glorious
Rapture to call
Them by name and
Watch them dance
Along the floor.
Oh what I might
Give to exhale my
Soul out into the deep
Vacuum and breathe
In a nebula. How
I long for a cloud
Of spectral
Space dust to sweep
Up my coat and
Deposit it somewhere in the
Vast expanse.
Oh what I might
Give to soar far
Beyond the sun,
This galaxy,
Or the next.
Oh, that I might
Spread my wings
To the twin moons
Of some solitude
That man shall
Never find.
Were it that easy.
Bradley
It is Six-Thirteen A.
M. and I have been
Awake for twenty-one
Hours, forty-six minutes
And
Four seconds.
At thirteen hours, I
Began to feel the inevitable
Draw of sleep
Stretching out
The remaining hours.
At fifteen hours,
I am renewed as I
Prepare for the journey.
One more drive
And then
I can rest.
At fifteen hours, I feel
A burst of vigor as
We prepare to depart.
My gold sedan with the new
Alternator is packed full, but has
Reserved two seats for
A driver
And
A passenger.
How polite.
We slip away, but
There isn’t anybody left
To care. Some Pop Nobody sings a
Gentle ballad as we wind our
Way through the city,
Like an addict through
An abandoned warehouse.
At nineteen and a half
Hours, my passenger
Is safely at her destination.
The sedan
With the new alternator
Rumbles along as the lights
And artificial vivacity of the airport,
Which defies the time of day,
And my fatigue,
Are sucked into the rear view. A large
Dose of caffeine sits in my stomach
And magnetizes my eyelids open.
Three songs have played off
The new playlist.
In six more I will reach Westfield and
Turn left.
At twenty hours, the caffeine
Has lost its snarl and I am
Out of Coca-Cola. I suck
On a cough drop just
To have something to do.
Eleven songs have played.
In three more, I will turn off onto
Route 8 and head northwest.
At twenty and a half hours,
I am in the back-woods
Of Massachusetts.
I have never driven this road before.
I do not know how many songs have played.
I do not know how many more are left.
The sky is the pensive gray
Of a sunrise
That has not yet
Introduced itself.
If not for these
Echoes of artists
Fossilized in the recordings,
I would find it very hard to convince
Myself that other people exist.
At twenty one hours,
The wheel feels smooth and cold
In my hands. My gold sedan with the
New alternator is hauling a**
Because it is six o’clock A.
M. and there is nobody
On the road. Shadows
Spasm on the asphalt
In my high-beams’ gaze
Like crackles of electricity.
It is difficult to tell if they are real.
I begin to think that
One of these
Days I will learn to
Throw a banana just
Like a boomerang.
I probably took that corner too fast.
This road will spit me out in Dalton,
Eventually.
It is Six-Thirteen A.
M. and I have been
Awake for Twenty-One
Hours, Forty-Six minutes
And probably fifty-
One seconds.
My gold Sedan
Clinks as the
Exhaust cools
In the driveway.
A small dog is startled awake.
Her tiny toenails
Skitter and click
On the tile as she
Scrambles forth
To greet her human—finally home!
