Eventually I started writing about living in New York City. I wrote about the skyline swallowing the moon at Queensboro Plaza, and a dream about falling off the Triboro Bridge I had while asleep on the N train, and the old, blind Brazilian accordionist who played Argentinean tangos on the 7 train. I recited my verse at every open mic I could find. I made most of my friends at those open mic's. We met every Sunday afternoon for beers at Local 138, a bar in the Lower East Side, and called ourselves The Locals. These were my best friends, my people. We were all wounded, none of us could tell by what. One of us once said, “A poet is a fugitive no one is after.”
Photo by Dennis Connors
Just added to The List and the Story: My Aughts