I haven't been writing much poetry this year. I hit a sort of self-conscious wall. Sick of everything I was writing. So I just stopped. And read. And thought. Latched onto some new poets. Rethought some rhythms, line lengths. At the core, when I write, everyone will still recognize my voice. But I've found new tools. Some new ways to lathe the shape of the words.
Oh, and if any of you come to New York, chances are we'll take you to Coney Island. It's one of my favorites places on earth.
Coney Island, After a Rain
This is our own quiet town.
All lights shushed, all sounds wetted down.
This boardwalk, such artery
is now sleep slow for passage.
We walk, because we were born together
walking. This is our rhythm.
No one can take this rain out from us,
every blink in our direction
is a photograph we’re entitled to.
Let’s have a hot dog at Nathan’s,
let’s share a giant lemonade,
let’s creep into the Wonder Wheel
and hibernate till June turns the crank.
Let’s only live summers.
I have a fake memory for us to remember.
Once we bought every bag of popcorn
between Surf and Mermaid,
and fed the gulls fat to the throat
until the shore was packed with sleeping cherubs.
I like it here because here I am undeliberate.
You like it because there is no certain future
riding in on tame Atlantic waves.
Let’s sit here all night at least.
Where the tide will barely move us.
