Kind and Barefoot

This is KB here. I consider myself extremely lucky to be a member of the Hear, Here team. This blog is late. Hear is my story.

I grew up in Littleton, Colorado. I have a big, loving family. I am a poet, jazz musician, marathon runner, political science student, debater, used car salesman, and hitchhiker. It is my belief that life is a long run and there are many trails that lead in a myriad of ways.
This trail is the Hear, Here trail. It led from monthly slams trying to accumulate points starting in October to the dramatic final finish amid a blizzard at stargazers. I didn't know if I'd make it and I daily feel humbled to be on the team with such a talented group of poets and artists.
And here I am, with a soul bound for wandering, grounded with my team, sharpening our wings so when we take flight we can really soar. These days, the writing process is like my first car. My first car was an 89 Honda Civic Hatch, standard, that I stalled all the time when I initially learned to drive. When I got it into gear though, that car was a dream, it was loud, fast, and beautiful. Write now, I'm still learning to drive. I've got a short curve before I can get it into gear and open up on the straight away. As I blog, every Wednesday, you'll hear about my life behind the scenes, my growth as a writer and performer, and our growth as a team. For now, take it easy. We'll see you tomorrow. Here's a poem about my first car:

Didn't mean to give up on you like that gus
I'm a part of the gratification generation
The impatient millenials who were born with fluff in our ears
Please forgive me
You have covered in locomotion
more miles than I ever may and you have learned the language
hidden in the grooves in the pavement
that the day labors of fathers and grandfathers graded
grinning at the good work they did.
With Pooh like patience,
You and I followed every blustery day to a breezy end
but even Christopher Robbin needed a new way to get to school.
Didn't mean to replace you
but broken engines are like broken hearts
you can only make so many repairs before the years of wear and tear
show in chipping paint and scar tissue
engines seize
hearts attack, until there is just no going back.
Baggage is only luggage when you identify that you have it
Filling the trunk with the memories of pushing you up the hill
Waiting for you to come to life again
a prayer with every turn of the key
Hoping for some sort of miracle
You know, like if Transformers were directed by Sam Raimi instead of Michael Bay
but at the end of the day
Theres so much more to you than meets the eye
And so long as the belt doesn't break, you've got impeccable timing
a built in rhythm, even your gears were rhyming
sliming the driveway with leaking oil, the life blood that kept your revolutions spinning
But you knew you were falling apart. You planned it
With every new tank of gas. You had a mind of your own
Hidden somewhere in the transmission
and not a bit of your intelligence was artificial
It was as real as the dent in your side and your rusty front wheel
As they say of athletes, you were always clutch
And it didn't matter much to you where we were going
Budha of beaten up automobiles I've learned lessons in leaks you sprung
Taught me that motion takes work
that every drive up the highways is a pilgramage
that every cough and sneeze of you inaccurate acura engine was a fire starting inside of you
that maybe the dead dinosaur milkshakes derricks suck through earth
shouldn't be used as frivolously.
If it weren't for you, I wouldn't have met whiskey joe, who gave us a tow from ignorance into discourse
If it weren't for you, I never would have learned that even feet communicate and some cars prefer not to be yelled at.
And when you looked too ill for me, we made sure you could teach someone else
Take them to work each day and feed a family.
Maybe I'm glad I gave up.