I sauntered back into Brooklyn,
wearing a new-used leather jacket
like a hipster thief that just Photoshopped
the art of moving on into a JPEG that is my loose life.
from an existential page of Camus,
I have the habit of applying human characteristics
to everyday objects, giving a feeling
of familiarity amidst uncertainty
in a leafy suburb-in-the-city.
in a leafy suburb-in-the-city.
writing poems about pencils,
poems about poems, poems about homes,
lost love, new fucking, movies and mostly food,
personifying it all, even giving my heart
a voice like a plumber, giving an orange an echo.
amongst the abundance of grand turn-of-the-last-century Colonials,
turreted Queen Anne homes and charming bungalows,
usually poetry feels like an anodyne insult to my intelligence, but the night and my saint flashlight
give the air of a literary security guard (in my silly soul).
beginning with the image of extreme light,
landing in an airplane in the cold,
making my way back to the basics of believing,
better for the bad luck that has beset me.
round Albemarle Road to Cortelyou Library,
I wish it were 1968, not 2022, but oh well,
and so it goes, and so I keep going,
finding inspiration in myself once again for the first time in a long time.
poetry is certainly no cure for a pandemic,
let alone for the disease of love,
but the use of real poetry to provide a way to think differently
about our daily anxieties has always been a balm,
and has only cemented the reasons why I decided to echo orange here.