Typing from my bed, while walking in my head, pre-surgery and taking it easy as the doctor said i should do. 9 months is gestation. 9 stanzas give birth to where i've been.
i.
i took first steps near Utica,
chasing Big Bird dreams with
imaginary friends, monsters,
and cookies...
... a pirate ship and matchbox cars,
playdough, and puzzles.
a world for me to walk,
as i learned to talk
putting one step
in front of the other.
ii.
they taught me to hopscotch in Cicero,
run the bases and throw the ball.
spring across Duncowing with footballs
while whizzing wiffleballs against a fence...
such mesmerizing movement
until Mr. Finster in crutches and wheel chair
taught me to move with my mind.
i learned to walk with words.
iii.
he told me one day my mouth would get
me into trouble.
adolescents run fast
before they falleth
and whiskey wouldn't help either.
i walked a world in mischief and curiosity,
too dumb to understand complexity and
too young to enjoy the simplicity in it all.
but i walked and learned,
having to pick myself up from the ground first.
iv.
they walked into my mind. writers and poets,
thinkers and philosophers.
we became another generation of artists.
walking to create our worlds.
Binghamton.
London.
New York City.
Bars,
clubs,
libraries,
and first homes.
the real world debuted on MTV.
v.
i ran with horses, bluegrass and fireworks,
a thesis and portfolios, discovering
the pastiche of brown.
i walked with Sue, a friend, who mentored
most of what i currently do and will be with me
until the end, as i learned to
listen to youth for the worlds they wanted me to know.
we stepped on beaches in St. Augustine, stepped onto
rafts in Beargrass Creek, and let wind of Danish
Fjords sail alongside our growing perspectives.
and they wrote. i wrote. Our worlds mattered.
vi.
they relocated, historical feats,
from refugee camps in Africa
into classrooms of American schools.
they taught me that soccer is everything,
and everything is the opportunity they
once didn't know existed.
i walked beside them while recording their words,
rationalized post-colonial politics in a
nation of super stores, minivans, and plastic surgery,
making peace with research,
preferring the mind of a poet.
vii.
i need an urban world, i told them,
where i can walk with youth
too often forgotten on the tracks and roads
most know.
i need teachers, a project for writers,
and hope to do good work despite the
institutions that turn our legs into concrete.
from a car window driving along the Sound,
i saw the checkerboard of privilege and poverty,
the chasm and gaps of a hypocrisy,
and realized i was walking into my future.
viii.
he walked into my English course
ready to play football.
he spread his wings
and told me he wanted to fly.
i promised my support
if he continued to try,
which he did.
an eagle in search of a home.
now, through mentorship,
the two of us roam
towards meaning and understanding
of a complicated world,
somehow swirled and twirled with one another's guidance.
ix.
and i find myself here.
immoble.
still noble.
ready to
move another foot
in front of the other
while lying still
for the first time in my life.
next week a knife,
recovery, but soon more walking
and discovery
as everything evolves at exactly the right time.
