Tuesday, August 30, 2016

something not like suburbs

We're tired of the fig trees
and the Smyrnan downtown scene,
we're longing for some beauty,
and a word we've never seen.

We're sick of shoeing camels,
we're tired of The Man.
Hitchhike with us to Cali
our Mediterranean.

We left behind the subways,
and the streetlight witching hour,
for a destiny less humdrum
and a yoke of easy labor.

We left behind the breezes
of sweet Harlem's summer nights,
casting our nets starboard,
fishing for loose starlight

Sing us songs of Kerouac,
Didion, and Steinbeck
We're hungry for a
something lacking
                              in the suburbs

Inked upon our skin is the memory of Smyrna,
of fathers' shops and
mothers' work thrust upon us.
But we pine for open highways!
for sunset in the desert.
We'll drink peyote, smoke moonshine,
drunk on our new wineskins

tomorrow may not come
"tonight," our lives demand of us
our sleep may turn eternal,
but now just take
the next left.

What could have been a ladder
transformed into a labyrinth.

No comments:

Post a Comment