Last month I finally published a poem for the first time. Not considering myself much of a poet, this felt really good. So good that I forgot to write a post about it, apparently.
But here it is in all its glory: a post specifically made to draw your attention to my newest published material. A poem about the AMERICAN DREAM, inspired by reading every stoner’s favorite novel Fear and Loathing. That is when they manage to stop talking about how The Catcher in the Rye is the best book ever written. (This is based off of experience from talking with only one stoner, actually. In high school when he sat next to me on the bus in the mornings right after smoking a bunch of American Spirits.)
There’s nothing like visiting the grandparents on weekends – especially as a child. My grandparents always made it a point to facilitate my imagination. That’s something I’ll remember the most, I think. The rule that I wasn’t allowed to buy my own books – they always bought them for me. Always bringing me to writing camps where I could write about anything. It’s easy to miss the days in which your world was essentially a poem out of William Blake’s The Songs of Innocence.
Here I recall those short car rides where I transition from begging my parents to tell me if we were there yet to loving the scenery: those passing trees, the businesses I somewhat recognize every time I visit. That neon sign of the baker flipping dough. (I always thought it was pancakes when I was little – and it still looks like pancakes, honestly.)
I recall the excitement for getting spoiled with love and food and adventures whether it be my grandparents exposing me to great books, video games or going out somewhere. It’s a time I always wish I could go back to.