Bare Cold Concrete

Bare feet in cold concrete
Stretching clears my mind
In the empty canvas
I can see my masterpiece
It’s a cultural invasion
And the warships bear my name

100 push-ups and a cup of coffee
To clear my brain
An Audio-Technica turntable spins the words of Nina Simone
We are in conversation
In a language that only a few gifted minds can speak
It’s the same language in which I talk to Bulgakov
And Faulkner and Cervantes
All of them tell me it’s my turn
Once the page stops being blank

My creative ritual is almost done
I pour absinthe and gin
Just like Hemingway did
The liquor reaches my brain
Everything becomes clear

I think about my father
How I will make right by our name
Which is synonymous with greatness
Our stripe will never be hungry again
Please Father hear what I have to say
I swear this page will not be blank for much longer
One more drink
And I can smell the fruits of my craft
Yet this drink is not enough
I need the pen’s ink running through my veins
To pierce the RCA cable in my ear until it perforates my brain
It will all be worth it

My face lays down in cold concrete
From here I can see my mentors looking down on me
Last names in book spines and film posters
They are so far away I’m all alone down here
The page is still blank