About her early years in New York
And wonder on the pastel gray days
Of nostalgia time travel…
And how my poems are just me
Trying to working out the past
While navigating the now…
And I remember her book of poems
And I remember meeting her
While bartending backstage
At some music fest down near the piers…
And I remember in high school,
Having to go to the board
To write something about The Great Gatsby
And how back then I believed that story
To be nothing but rich people
And rich people’s problems
But then the Puerto Rican girls
Snickered in the back
And when I asked them what’s up
They told me I write my Gs backward
Like the way I draw out the actual letter...
Years later I would type out
The Great Gatsby word for word,
transcribing it to find Fitzgerald’s cadence,
conscious of the Gs…
My eyes are growing heavy
My eyes are growing heavy
with memory on mind,
So maybe I will finish this “poem” tomorrow
But then even this shit is time travel,
Started one day, continued the next,
Like life and some person you met
A million years ago in another life
who can still inspire today
Which inspires tomorrow...
So maybe I will finish this “poem” tomorrow
But then even this shit is time travel,
Started one day, continued the next,
Like life and some person you met
A million years ago in another life
who can still inspire today
Which inspires tomorrow...