Forest Hills.
a couple musicians.
mostly comedians.
and me, the lone poet.
talking shit.
about love.
and life.
music and films.
nothing and everything.
over pancakes.
under neon lights.
hiding together.
just off the E/F/M/R trains.
just beating the summer rain.
Joe says he is moving to Jersey.
Sarah asks me about Florida.
Mark calls Raanan a dildo.
Hershberg says he loves Hilary.
Hilary pretends not to hear.
I take mental notes.
Take it all with a grain of salt.
Put salt on my fries.
Dip my fries in ranch.
Wait to be made fun of.
we debate what will last longer.
books of poetry.
or jokes on YouTube.
they will both live longer than all of us combined.
with a mix of inspiration and perspiration.
runaway emotions reveal.
and we all agree.
the punchline is not the point.
the poem is not the point.
the point is to live forever.
the punchline is not the point.
the poem is not the point.
the point is to live forever.