Photo by Francesca Saraco on Unsplash
January 25, 2019
Landing at JFK after my red-eye flight,
I walk through terminal whatchama’ call it requesting a ride between flights.
An hour later my Lyft drops me off near John V. Lindsay East River Park to start.
After a stretch and trotting under the Williamsburg, I’m on Brooklyn’s Bridge,
Running and rapping a Nas song to People as if Brooklyn’s where I live…
But no, I’m from Portland, Oregon—blazing to sing through songs I’m implorin’,
Impersonating a writer from a body of Zen I run in.
First I chant—preparing to voyage alone and spread the bliss I seek every morning.
Now, Rise and Shine; find me east-coast time.
From my old concrete floor, grew the flower you see in me blooming more and more.
Once curdled in the dark, wishing for a New York City type spark.
Begging for a vacation; life back then was dark.
Whatever that means…
But silence of one lamb, was silent for my sham.
Excuse me, but I meant shame.
I had to rhyme or else this poem reads lame.
So I spark my imaginary cigar of fame…
It’s my Frank Sinatra type thang,
Projecting dreams upon New York’s finest bridge for gain…
I’m on this bridge during a layover—envisioning my decent over,
DC ya’ heard, soon to be wheels down at Reagan I yearn.
Fresh off a Jet Blue bird, Lyfted to run NYC turnt’, and no photo taken on this run I earned.
But that’s my traditional traveling way.
Playing on FDR Parkway between planes on a Tuesday.
Why I do it?
Because I can write about it.
Use words as my portrait like this.
Marking each verb as they sketch it.
Wait until the next time I rap on that bridge…
8 thoughts on “Brooklyn’s Bridge of Glory”