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…

-Budd

Born and raised in Portland, Oregon, Budd writes to encourage readers to explore the depths of their inner ocean, an unexplored self, because it's fun once you get through the emotional part... “The world around us is our vehicle, what you'll read is how I digest it.” -Budd

5 Comment on “Brooklyn’s Bridge of Glory

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