where the wild collide of cash and youth,
has me between Ramen and a trust fund.
The old Brooklyn fire escapes
drip the red brick of the 1800s lofts;
a few leftover cigar shops linger like smoke,
and there are a few old lady Polish Babushka holdouts
amidst the seas of 21-year-olds in yoga pants.
I used to be one of these young folk,
running around Willytowne,
chasing girls and dreams,
listening to sad bastard folk music.
A very cute woman walks a very cute little dog
in front of me, interrupting my reverie (revelry?),
as the Yorkie licks a nearby turd,
making me think dogs have a great outlook on life:
Even eating shit feels like a bonus to them.
I’m sitting on the cold cement
in front of the only shop that doesn’t look expensive,
typing away, drinking caffeine, no one hassles me:
I am not a dog person, because of envy?
I recently stood in a graffitied room
where the dry wall had been kicked out
and my shoes stuck to the floor.
I’d been there before.
I was older now, at least ten years older.
I was older now, at least ten years older.
And a lifetime older than most of the crowd,
college aged kids without the education,
wearing bras as shirts, bold in a way I never was.
They jumped up and down as my friends’ band played,
gripping hands, whooping, not even really watching my friends,
just warming their bodies against strangers’ bodies,
letting off steam, free in the privacy of their drunkenness.
A deeply relatable experience, a deeply relatable desire,
to be “in the thick of it,” “in the heart of it,” “in the mix.”
How much I needed that, to spread like mycelium with little discernment,
nicking myself against anyone who made any kind of art,
anyone with a tattoo, anyone who grew sunflowers on a Brooklyn balcony.
Is aging just memories dogpiling,
old selves constantly vying for attention?
Will I ever just get to be one self, myself?
but I also want to take responsibility for who I am,
and accountability for my art via finishing my projects:
I’m no longer able to throw my arms in the air
I’m no longer able to throw my arms in the air
and say “none of this matters, I’m a beginner, whatever.”
What I create matters enormously to me.
This is my life.