If Only

I had this thought growing up that I’d live the life of a poet
Stuck in constant back and forth
Conversations about philosophy and poetry and art
In my dingy apartment living room in the East Village, New York

We’d all spend our time smoking cigarettes,
As our tongues and teeth slowly become stained red with wine
Digesting dinner in our stomaches
Digesting Neitzsche and Socrates in our minds

Clocks are useless when contemplating the purpose
Of time

I’d have a collection of jobs, no w-2’s
Or worrying about checks going through
My bank account would be my pillow case,
Rent never paid the day it’s due

And Sundays would be brunch days
Sitting outside, even in the cold windy days
And I’d go to church not cause I believed In God, but because the stained glass windows spoke to my soul and I love the sound of an organ
Harmonizing with a choir of children

Me and my collection of outsiders would saunter around in pea coats we found at the thrift store on 7th and 2nd

We’d feel rich when we stopped at Veniero’s for an eclair

We’d feel poor when our pockets were empty, bare
Because we’d just pooled our money and paid last month’s rent

Time spent reading in cafe’s,
Writing in cafe’s
Drinking in cafe’s
Conversing in cafe’s
Falling in love in cafe’s
Falling out of love in cafe’s
Writing a three hundred page manuscript, epic poem about the experience of falling in and out of love over coffee

Playing a game of monopoly
Chewing the fat of forgotten poetry

But all of this can be nothing more than a fantasy

So I’ll read karoac, Ginsberg and Kyger
I’ll stare at the art of those who roamed the halls of the Chelsea Hotel
Cry while I listen Joan Baez and Patti Smith

Feel like I’m in hell
Because this isn’t the life I get to live

But we can’t cry over spilt milk,
And we can’t contemplate jazz without taking the time to listen to jazz
We can’t live before we exist,
I consume myself with the fear of things I’ve missed

Who says twitter can’t be poetry?
Maybe cigarettes can be replaced with incense and CBD
On the road
Hitchhiking could be a mess
Uber is safer I guess

So, I’ll write my own poetry and prose
And maybe in fifty years, someone will look at my words,
The paper marked with my pen
And say, “If only I was born then…”

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