Well I moved to D.C. and I’m a yuppie now. I made sure to go to the local coffee shop and write a poem like a full blown yuppie. (cough *nerd alert* cough) Whatever dude, judge me all you want, but I’d be lying if I said I didn’t enjoy it. Begs the questions… Who even am I anymore? WHAT HAVE I BECOME? Not that it matters. What actually matters is this- I wrote a new poem. I’m a little fish in a big, unfamiliar pond now. So come explore with me-
Not quite sure if that’s herringbone or basketweave,
Brick paver weaving reeds and fluttered pleasantries,
Women singing with their weaving reeds
and weaving words with each other.
Poetry in motion grounded by bricks.
And these little round tables. Like fairy circles pockmarking the landscape.
And I have my own! My own little cozy stone that I grasp onto like an acorn barnacle,
Oh, Arabica aroma, please take me somewhere more primordial,
Somewhere less cultivated,
With jasmine and bristlecone.
Bohemians, let’s talk about when the tiger smoked and the rabbit talked to dragons,
I’ll bask in your babbling brooks and ocean currents,
We could sing and weave,
We could speak in sign,
We could drink in wine and talk about the journeys of sun and soul.
But for now, I meditate on a mangrove swamp,
On the concept of myself as a mullet in a mangrove swamp.
Sooner or later I’ll sprout from brick and weed through wicker,
That’s the nature of the seasons-
But for now, music is music, patience is patience,
And when I migrate from mangroves I’ll feel the
synching of songs…
And I’ll live in rhythm.