"the brooklyn flag"
with a terminal case of wrong coast aloofness by jake kilroy.

i can't believe i didn't die
going through the lettered window
of a café named between french and fake,
cross-tongued and locust-mouthed
with a brimstone bloody mary
smeared like new year's lipstick.
a bunk season of fashion faux pas
clung to me like squirrelly demons,
dragging me through a parade
of the gentrified blocks
i wasn't able to name
until yesterday.

revival architecture in name only,
the movie set burnout scene
popped my eyes like wood-fired ovens
the last time i was in town,
falling asleep beside a redhead,
talking about travel and marketing,
waking up on a plane back to an agency.

years later, i would be in echo park,
making the same jokes and mistakes,
learning the same terms and lessons,
asking if i've ever survived anything.
coast to coast, breath taking
as a utilitarian solely via business card,
i'd wager i'll outlive people more deserving
and be buried like i did something
more than try new restaurants
with prices that drove up the rent.