groupie

new york is many things to me. i find myself a fickle child when nestled in her concrete bosom. at once i am mortified to discover that few people make eye contact, and the northeastern equivalent of “excuse me” is to walk through me as if i’m not standing there. at the same time, there are things that i thrive on. things that make me want to do and be more. things like art…things like poetry.

today we went to the nuyorican cafe. it was a slam and the place was packed…i’m sure beyond capacity. all nesteled together – one big diversity fest, poets took the mike in turns. they brought to a homemade stage of a crate palet – the voice of soldiers in far off wars, women in search of orgasm, hearts in need of love. they invited a crowded space into the interiors of cancer and dead fathers.

i found myself awestruck. something i haven’t been in a while. taken by the varying voices – the diverse cadence that made me listen and evaluate how much i care about mcdonald’s pulling out of jamaica and dating a 22 1/2 year old…dare i say…man.

sitting with the darkness on my upturned face, listening to the echo of the mike amplifying words beyond ink…i was elated and saddened. it has been so long since i’ve written anything. so long since i had concrete thoughts made abstract on paper – wordy dreams made concise in front of an audience.

i must admit i wrote a little at the metro station. waiting for a train that never came as the workers scattered over the tracks picking up trash, i found myself scratching ink to scavenged paper trying to remember what poeting felt like. like an imposter practicing a craft that is borrowed.

only it wasn’t always borrowed. and right now i’d like to be more than a mike and pen groupie.