of the experimental, DIY bookstore
in DUMBO Brooklyn,
called Sorted Library.
I create my own poetry shelf,
stashing my own books there,
dragging over Kenneth Patchen
and Brautigan.
I feel out of place,
in spite of the Pixies playing;
these people and these places
have passed me by.
I am just an old vagabond now,
but then again Brooklyn has never been home;
it's always be a foreign land to me,
and Eric makes fun of me for this.
I am to meet him later
at some whiskey bar in Greenpoint,
but for now, I just get lost
in this poetry playlist that Dev, the owner allows.
Surely, some other dildo
will come in here and ruin
what I have created,
but I have come to accept dumb choices.
I am hideously complex.
chill one moment,
loosing my mind the next,
I pity the present that rides with me.