Thursday, February 19, 2009

Another Bar Poem

Brooklyn comes alive

The barbwire wrapped tire on the chain link fence reaches as low as my neck and I shutter to acknowledge the dog barking at my heels.

In the morning construction is in full swing. I get hootin’ and hollerin’ but they get diggers and 4x4’s. I love and hate the moments between their cigarettes. They sit around like stray cats sssstts sssst.

This is my home ‘cause Brooklyn is the place to find myself. So I walk for a few blocks and practice patience—waiting for the walking man to light up. The noise of traffic hits my mind, numbing it as my feet navigate the cracks in the sidewalks.

Finally I’m there and it’s a fuckin’ Russian Orthodox Church, only now it’s been sold and I’m going to dance all night where alters used to stand. There was a moment that night where I thought I stepped outside myself and I was painfully different than I once thought I would be.

I live in what some used to call the ghetto. I’ll always remember the grandma from a few stoops down saving me from the homeboys holding up their pants. I got a scar on my knee that night, from tripping over the rack of hipster bikes on my run home. Repeating the whole way, “I’m just trying to get there.”

And who can forget the sandwiches from the corner bodega? No one. That thinly sliced pastrami, on the day Puerto Rican flags flew as far as we could see, melted in my mouth and dripped down my chin. Then the cops told me to stay in my house while they calmed the crowd. All I wanted to do was get some cold beer to ease out of the hot day and into a warm night.

And sometimes there are moments when I step out into the sun from underground and I feel like I’ve found everything I need right here. Right in this little funky borough that’s so full of flavor. But other times I know there are a million mistakes to swallow down, it makes my insides break a part. Brooklyn is one situation during the day and an entirely different feeling after the moon is up. Just look at the stories all the graffiti spells out for us, it’s pain and beauty—fear and enlightenment.

Every time I see a Jesus statue in someone’s window, I wait for it to come alive.


Kiko Jones said...

Very cool. Does the darkness and the alcohol set the tone for your wordflow? I enjoyed it.

(I just noticed that comments kinda reads like haiku. Hmm...)

Kiko Jones said...

I meant "comment". Gotta get some sleep...