My normal is better than yours

Here a hello for all ye hipsters, haymakers and halcyon hoverers. Happy to return here for the next few weeks, as I never had a chance for a proper goodbye in January. Between losing my job and arranging a myriad of difficulties to reduce overhead for a smoother grasp on survival mode…well, I just had to go cold turkey from Harriett to catch my breath…my bad! But feet have landed, lungs re-filled, so enough with the breadcrumb trail…where can we go together? Perhaps a public act of normal for the uberized normal (and who might that be, dear reader?) Or a fool's day for poetry month. Or a tale for all you tellers on the shore. Or the poet's wish to share perceived normal...the benign underpinnings of concept imagined as time. Or maybe the poet endured a blizzard, a battle against the intelligentsia, that realigned the hierarchy of his trees. Who thinks that they shall never see a poem lovely as an entire generation of maples, pines, cedars, chestnuts and oaks? The full profile of your perimeter, forever changed by record-breaking snowfalls. Primary and secondary branches on giant patriarchs, brought down by the sheer weight of howling winds in the middle of the night. Even now in springtime, re-living the caved-in weekend upstate, where the poet lost power and used candles at night, a mattress of snow for a fridge, and a wood-burning stove to melt snow for the toilet, boil water for eggs, corn, squash, burnt toast…must…feed...family. Or how the poet saved eleven dwarf fruit trees in the moonlight by wrapping himself in the inertia of a city-bred loner refusing to give in, fighting two feet of snow to shake those little branches burdened by reflection from an overwhelming need to let them reach for the heavens, there you go, he whispers to them in the frostbit night. His breath, smoked by a godless climb. Or the cleanup in the aftermath, a tangle of uprooted impossibilities, now six weeks later, deadened by the sun, chainsawed to fight off disease. Or the poet's continued gratitude for a commute that takes him from a family he loves to a city he loves, an affair no one saw coming. A realization that soul mates number far and few but home is where the heart goes wild. And if there's too much convenience in this lyricism, dearest reader. If the smoothness of lark by line and lift has made you wary of flow…know…that poet's imperceptive wail is burbling in the speed of slow. Know this blog is mercury for molten dust. A fractive normal looking for a poet. A lens refraction as tele-tweet...do you really want to know where each of us is going, annhialation's reverie? Let's travel tilled reminders, obviate the urban ember. My Bronx, better than your brio. Did I say poet I meant stone, bled by stretching feelers in the mouth. Are we caught up now, ready to tolebrate the rancid wave? Perhaps the unearthed normal is desired to find the new root. Or maybe the unearthed root is time looking for a poem. I had an idea about the idea of normal but that's all changed by now. Thanks for riding, here we go...