Honey, there is nothing radio about me
Nobody can smooth polish onto the chipping stumble of my bumbling stutter
My rhythms can never float to a practiced drummer
There is a metronome in my poembox that always points to the ocean
My creative process is running to the shore breathless and barefoot
And trying to breathe in the entire Atlantic
In a pulsing tug of war
Filling my lungs with glowfish and ghost eels
Searching on the intake of hungry storyquake
For the experience of feeling everything at once
I am the lanky kid on the beach with seaweed in my hair
And no car to return to
I cannot be a woman for you
But I can be a person for me
I'm not a smooth jazz sonata
I'm a jaywalker in a silly hat
And my best poems are the ones I haven't found yet
I heard they live in tent cities in the deepest jungles of my fever
And I fear I will someday be one of them.
Until then
Do not look at me like a flower
I have used the word "blooming" in a hundred poems
But I will never dare invoke "bloom" past tense
This forest is so dense
I can smell the ink of novels that haven't been born yet
On the coastlines of the spreading vines
There are glowfish and ghost eels
Making radiowire nests in the branches
Honey
There is something radio about me,
I am the wavecrest of contradictions popcrackling in the static
My stutter has-my stutter has a pattern
And I am singing to the open air before I learn it
You can find me by turning that pop song one click of the dial to the side
Looking the sun straight in the eye
Then watching the corners of the patterns it casts
On everything else
Look for me there
And tell me what you find,
I'm still searching myself