the season of not being backed into a corner

or I feel the sleepiest kind of lucky.

I was warned of going stir crazy. but the less I was around people the easier I can take their tiny stresses. I have found semi-unsurprisingly that I am well fit for cabin life. I was more forgiving on the mountain. Unencumbered by routine even my small plans felt like stretching exercises. In the dark morning, I am reminded of bending toward longer & longer darkness. I moved here in the winter so it's my most familiar season. I can fetishize a west coast winter. "Better than Boston" I always say.

It bothers me when people don't know how serious I am. They see my poems & think those are my primary lyrics. I chose poems because I saw the futility in facts years ago. We didn't need fake news to be dumb. We stopped believing in anything reported more at 11. It bothers me when people read me as live & late-breaking. When their own crisis forms from second-hand hysteria. The tone of classical rebuttal. The syntax of artistic reflection.

what if I start hormones & then hate all my poetry. I wonder if I'll still love my neighbor. I wonder if one day he'll meet my gaze & finally realize the girl next door is magic. my lover would hate him. my lover will hate all the men before him who teased care over my tongue in so many tastes. I am the lover that is unjustifiably still longing & insecure. why do folk love telling me how much they learn from me? I never feel like a lesson only labor. A visit, an errand, a chore. hassle me, daddy. I guess I miss a few men.

upon my return, I hope to be left alone. I'm on a new path. I'm reflecting on things I thought swallowing would service. My new work will take a while. I need to get in the way. I am returning to less than I left with & with more than my home could process. All the fish-pond metaphors suck in Portland. Everyone I like hates everyone else, so it's copacetic.