from a booth, upstairs at city lights

amongst you

i hear the shuffling of papers, folders opening and closing wondering if we’d gone too far from nights dancing with words, shooting stars glazed over, realizing dylan was a person

the best of my generation

they read words in corners and debate your mind

it’s theirs

clothes hang in a breeze only this town can laugh at

they grin and won’t finish the book

we thought we should discover, why this upstairs reading room is full of fears

cameras snapping, you ran out the back door after drifting through monsters in the basement odors where stairs creaked giving you away to the only celebrity status you could have imagined a poet to have

snapping fingers and gay men touching genitalia to press our comfort level to heights ignored by the dragons next door, they’re selling culture

walking through back streets

is any of it here, have we maintained a museum losing intention of what a place like this creates

i’m scared, scared that as i write this poem in your echo it’s an ode to something shit on by our generations dabbling quick pulse obsession with taking a picture outside and proving our worth, i’m done

your paper is now being crumbled, chair wheels spin, i hear you pacing around the room

are you waiting for me


dropped articles, a tape dispenser

my heart races

are you going to open up, wait, lighter laughter

women’s voices, talking about their mother

what she used to say

songs she’d play

‘it cracked me up’

‘that’s so great’ it sounded fake, maybe your voices did too, i immortalized fakers

i’m done; in the poetry room

kids are impatiently waiting in streets honking

time to pay my money, as tribute, to standing, sitting and waiting

where you once dwelled

thank you