Oh, my mind is crazy wild this Friday morning.
Wild like eucalyptus leaves fluttering softly in an early morning summer breeze. That wild. That alive, that generous. Somewhere between Laura Nyro’s soul and Kathleen Hanna’s bravery. That wild. Sitting in the sand at a deserted beach on Cape Cod, counting the Atlantic’s waves. That wild. Wondering if I’m bothered by a car racing down the street when I’ve reached 875 million in my count. Or if every dream I’ve ever dreamed, and forgotten upon awakening, shows up when I’m alone in a small apartment this afternoon, and I’m stupefied for the next eight weeks. That wild.
The way I may have been lulled to sleep by all the traffic, in some other life, sleeping out by the interstate. The way I may have been lost brothers with James Brown, and we stayed up half the night, two lit candles burning, talking and sharing quietly. That wild. Falling flat on my face, and making the catch, nobody else in the world out in that little league right field but me. That wild.
Going to a sit-in, I’m the only one there, to sit on the extinction of all the ancient elms once gracing my growing-up street. Yeah – that wild.