Poetry Collection Part 1: Musings of an Interstellar Nomad; Bradley

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!