February 18, 2016
What paper planes and empty seats most have in common
is that they are best made by children still learning how to ride things out.
There is a lot to be said for practice. And propellers.
Don’t sit down for this. Not yet.
Everything in turn until we become invisible
like a death-do-us-part party
and even then—
Dear Big Britches and Elbow Grease,
Ride with me.
Sleeves up. Top down.
Wild-eyed and astronomical,
the balance of being young
still creasing into our laughter lines.
Let everyone else refer to themselves as an old soul
if that’s what they need to smile. But we
the awe-stricken and lightning-struck, we know better.
Every moment is a brand new baby, Baby.
Every vow is a brave new voice.
your voice still calls me Home.
And Pickle Sticks.
As in, “What the hell did you do that for,
Pickle Sticks?” Please,
let this life be proof
we are working
for the indestructible source of yes.
We are paid
well in the ways we arrive at each other.
And we rest
knowing everything is easy in orbit,
not just the sun, Sunny Buns.
This day too. Let every last one of our days be proof
that don’t stop accepting is our only instruction
because we won’t stop changing
is the only truth.
is that this universe
is gassy and unpredictable.
It still has not said excuse me for the Big Bang.
we expect too much
instead of practicing enough
or receiving in us just the right answer. You
the staggering answer.
is that there is very little difference
between a brilliantly written horoscope
and a baby mobile shaped like the Milky Way.
There is a day
for every last star
with exactly the same outcome:
falling asleep, side-by-side
in our prime time pillow-talk show,
maps to the music of midnight
while the rest of the world goes static
magically marked in firefly parts
across cinematic patches of looking glass. Look—
I do not know if I will be able make you happy
on the 8th day of our 17th year
or on the 4th month of our 3rd decade
because I’ve never been that far.
But you can know for sure, I am already doing my best.
You will always have my best.
You are the home I point to that lives in my chest.
The truth is
what children and the landing of a plane
most have in common
is they are best made by a line drive
of pilot lights guided
through a single tambourine
across the day we met
in a field of wet
metal hands on the Gospel of Lightning.
***ORIGINALLY 4 PAGES LONG. SHORTENED TODAY AS PART OF
A GRANT SUBMISSION THAT I’VE BEEN LOOKING AT WAY TOO LONG.