IS THERE A REVOLUTION IN MY HEART
or is it just bad poetry?
I’m thinking of the kids I teach online, their yawning
as Muslims during Ramadan
I have to tell myself that it’s not because of me
and that reminds me of smoking cigarettes behind a Dunkin Donuts
in blue jeans, white t-shirt
who the hell do I think I am?
Bruce Springsteen singing about Atlantic City in my ears
as I know I have found my nirvana on the other side of the world
here
in Da Nang, Vietnam
and I listened to him singing while I escaped the hostels of Budapest
scrimping and saving like a cliche street sweeper limping to a Starbucks
on the corner of a busy highway or in Bali, too
the heat
was getting to me
all around the world, and so I often succumb to depressions and doubt
and disfigurement of body and mind
and my soul
rests so very still
I am ashamed
of not being stronger on those days
so how can I have a revolution in my heart?
listening to Rage Against the Machine helps, but where did
Zack
go?
is he growing a whimsical beard like Whitman
who spent his whole life bouncing around Brooklyn and New Jersey
looking for a place, his place in the world—it was finally
afterall
within his own heart, glowing eyes
a book of poems he reworked for decades
and then
they named a bridge after him in Philadelphia
connecting it to Camden
that turned into a drug-fueled
warzone
ah, but that journey in the 19th century
I’d looked on it longingly like Kerouac, Ginsberg
and they said I was born in the wrong generation
or maybe that’s not really true
maybe
I just want the city, any city
to name a beer
after me
and what did I stand for? was it true?
I think too much
and
that only gets in
the way
of a path, the Universe
speaks
I let it
and dream
a little while— and then
I
will
strike.
I’m thinking of the kids I teach online, their yawning
as Muslims during Ramadan
I have to tell myself that it’s not because of me
and that reminds me of smoking cigarettes behind a Dunkin Donuts
in blue jeans, white t-shirt
who the hell do I think I am?
Bruce Springsteen singing about Atlantic City in my ears
as I know I have found my nirvana on the other side of the world
here
in Da Nang, Vietnam
and I listened to him singing while I escaped the hostels of Budapest
scrimping and saving like a cliche street sweeper limping to a Starbucks
on the corner of a busy highway or in Bali, too
the heat
was getting to me
all around the world, and so I often succumb to depressions and doubt
and disfigurement of body and mind
and my soul
rests so very still
I am ashamed
of not being stronger on those days
so how can I have a revolution in my heart?
listening to Rage Against the Machine helps, but where did
Zack
go?
is he growing a whimsical beard like Whitman
who spent his whole life bouncing around Brooklyn and New Jersey
looking for a place, his place in the world—it was finally
afterall
within his own heart, glowing eyes
a book of poems he reworked for decades
and then
they named a bridge after him in Philadelphia
connecting it to Camden
that turned into a drug-fueled
warzone
ah, but that journey in the 19th century
I’d looked on it longingly like Kerouac, Ginsberg
and they said I was born in the wrong generation
or maybe that’s not really true
maybe
I just want the city, any city
to name a beer
after me
and what did I stand for? was it true?
I think too much
and
that only gets in
the way
of a path, the Universe
speaks
I let it
and dream
a little while— and then
I
will
strike.
NO COUNTRY IS PERFECT
I saw her in my dream
she was in a bathroom
but she had an iPad on a bar
but nobody was drinking
and I think she’d been talking to the cops
behind
my back, almost
as a conspiracy
for what?
I asked her, locking the door
so she could no longer be their puppet
and damn it all, she was in that beautiful red dress
that
felt like
a
manipulation
that no longer worked
and I woke up realizing that I am still
traumatized
by losing her,
our
conversations
about the world
were
so
good
as we’d traveled to seven
countries
together
we understood
that every country had its own problems
and there were easy moments, too
when we talked about sex together
nobody around
we were in our own
world, creating it
demolished
by not
believing
in our-
selves
that’s what
hurts now, is that
ultimate regret
like staring
out a window
while reading
a book
and not really understanding
why you can’t
just be
content
in the life, and the world
that you wanted
in the first place.
she was in a bathroom
but she had an iPad on a bar
but nobody was drinking
and I think she’d been talking to the cops
behind
my back, almost
as a conspiracy
for what?
I asked her, locking the door
so she could no longer be their puppet
and damn it all, she was in that beautiful red dress
that
felt like
a
manipulation
that no longer worked
and I woke up realizing that I am still
traumatized
by losing her,
our
conversations
about the world
were
so
good
as we’d traveled to seven
countries
together
we understood
that every country had its own problems
and there were easy moments, too
when we talked about sex together
nobody around
we were in our own
world, creating it
demolished
by not
believing
in our-
selves
that’s what
hurts now, is that
ultimate regret
like staring
out a window
while reading
a book
and not really understanding
why you can’t
just be
content
in the life, and the world
that you wanted
in the first place.
|
BIO:
Bryan has been away from America for more than two years, currently living in Da Nang, Vietnam. In 2019, he traveled to 12 countries. He's had stuff published in various lit mags. In April 2021, he signed a publishing contract for a poetry chapbook. He's also self-published 15 books. His website is bryanwilliammyers.com. (Twitter: @bryanwillmyers) (IG: @bryanwilliammyers)
Bryan has been away from America for more than two years, currently living in Da Nang, Vietnam. In 2019, he traveled to 12 countries. He's had stuff published in various lit mags. In April 2021, he signed a publishing contract for a poetry chapbook. He's also self-published 15 books. His website is bryanwilliammyers.com. (Twitter: @bryanwillmyers) (IG: @bryanwilliammyers)
