I'm writing again- is this a poem?
La Vie Boheme
Discover the writer’s life in New York;
The stories jump into your head, unbidden, and
Your fingers fly across the keyboard.
Poems grow on trees. and
Def Poetry Jam hides golden tickets in organic carob bars
You are given a free laptop with every lease
Signed on a garret,
And the Chinese food delivers itself.
The landlords do not check the credit of writers-
There is a quota.
You will be cool in New York.
You will find writers to hang out with-
There is a bulletin board that advertises.
Or form your own clique- New York offers classes.
Cafes give discounts to writers.
They pour free coffee and let you stay as long as you like,
Smoking cigarettes in defiance of the law,
Because smoke inspires creativity.
Discover the writer’s life in New York,
Where publishers haunt open mic nights, and
There’s a script in every pot,
And where people go to dream
And live fast,
And learn lots through adventures
With transvestites.
They become ok with their sexuality.
They experiment.
New York is the city of dreams,
The cost of living is vastly overrated.
In New York everyone is a writer,
Except for the actresses and musicians,
And there are a few visual artists too, but
They usually act or sing or write, too.
New York gives a free pass for talent.
No one fails there,
Everyone makes it, and then
They get interviewed in the Village
Voice so I can read them from
Ohio and be jealous.
The ethos of New York is mythos,
And the lure of New York is
The antithesis of pathos,
And the cache of New York is enough
To make other writers shrivel,
And feel inadequate, or at least,
Not completely formed.
I do not have what it takes to make it in New York.
I fear paying the rent, and
My mother would not allow it
Unless I had a job, when that is never the reason to go to New York.
You move to New York for a dream,
To create,
To breathe in the very air of inspiration
(it has something to do with taxi exhaust)-
And there are lots of others there like me, but
Less afraid,
And more built to accommodate discomfort,
Who can keep warm by wrapping
Cache and romance around them like
An afghan.
They are more comfortable sharing tiny spaces,
And as they wait tables,
Their feet
Barely clear the ground
And they always get their shift traded for auditions
Or workshops- and everybody sings Rent,
and it makes them feel honest, and gritty, and real.
I don’t know the words to Rent. Not all of them anyway.
I’m not quite cool enough for New York,
So I slog away here, looking for words
Underneath rocks, and inside the lint filter.
But I can pay my rent.
Discover the writer’s life in New York;
The stories jump into your head, unbidden, and
Your fingers fly across the keyboard.
Poems grow on trees. and
Def Poetry Jam hides golden tickets in organic carob bars
You are given a free laptop with every lease
Signed on a garret,
And the Chinese food delivers itself.
The landlords do not check the credit of writers-
There is a quota.
You will be cool in New York.
You will find writers to hang out with-
There is a bulletin board that advertises.
Or form your own clique- New York offers classes.
Cafes give discounts to writers.
They pour free coffee and let you stay as long as you like,
Smoking cigarettes in defiance of the law,
Because smoke inspires creativity.
Discover the writer’s life in New York,
Where publishers haunt open mic nights, and
There’s a script in every pot,
And where people go to dream
And live fast,
And learn lots through adventures
With transvestites.
They become ok with their sexuality.
They experiment.
New York is the city of dreams,
The cost of living is vastly overrated.
In New York everyone is a writer,
Except for the actresses and musicians,
And there are a few visual artists too, but
They usually act or sing or write, too.
New York gives a free pass for talent.
No one fails there,
Everyone makes it, and then
They get interviewed in the Village
Voice so I can read them from
Ohio and be jealous.
The ethos of New York is mythos,
And the lure of New York is
The antithesis of pathos,
And the cache of New York is enough
To make other writers shrivel,
And feel inadequate, or at least,
Not completely formed.
I do not have what it takes to make it in New York.
I fear paying the rent, and
My mother would not allow it
Unless I had a job, when that is never the reason to go to New York.
You move to New York for a dream,
To create,
To breathe in the very air of inspiration
(it has something to do with taxi exhaust)-
And there are lots of others there like me, but
Less afraid,
And more built to accommodate discomfort,
Who can keep warm by wrapping
Cache and romance around them like
An afghan.
They are more comfortable sharing tiny spaces,
And as they wait tables,
Their feet
Barely clear the ground
And they always get their shift traded for auditions
Or workshops- and everybody sings Rent,
and it makes them feel honest, and gritty, and real.
I don’t know the words to Rent. Not all of them anyway.
I’m not quite cool enough for New York,
So I slog away here, looking for words
Underneath rocks, and inside the lint filter.
But I can pay my rent.