my folks wanted normal.
i got nods when i wore the beige suit (this happened Twice in all my 49 years).
i grew up around crossed fingers that I’d learn
hobby don’t make no money.
that would have to happen from magic.
so i went out into the wilderness and hunted degrees, certs, and validation– i even dry cleaned and starched a white collared shirt
i did very good to grow-up and be —not me
though wild chocked me with its vines squeezing for books to be birthed,
books to be purged from poetry pain,
books to be rinsed from journals stashed in dusty cardboard boxes
but when i heard the whisper from the muse at the nape of my neck
i could, no more, deny
she said go be.
be like those explorers you spy , like James Baldwin, Toni Morrison, Joyce Maynard, the ones who wore wide floppy felt hats covering one eye.
meet them and sip cappuccino til 3 then wine till your journals swell.
be lifted up from your juliette balcony by the magical balloon filled with the air from your imagination and meaning.
both have the power to raise you up, even when it rains.
normal, at this point, is absolutely impossible.