Brooklyn’s Bridge of Glory

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…


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