New Poem: beer

Hey Rioters! I haven't posted a new poem in a while. Probably because I haven't written a new poem in a while. I've had the idea for this one rummaging around in my head for a while, building up some steam. Tonight, I was laying in bed, and it came. Full force. It wouldn't let me sleep until I put it on paper, but it came so fast I almost lost it. So I typed it instead.

If you write poetry or are artistically inclined, that made sense to you. Otherwise, I'm sure I sounded weird.

Anyways, now that that's out of me, I can get back to writing the other project I have going on. Most importantly, however, I can now go to sleep without beer cans in my head.

Oh yeah, that's what the poem is about: beer cans. Sort of.

Love and Lyte,

Fire Lyte


There’s this patch of dirt where nothing grows
under a bridge, barely a bridge, that keeps a creek
from being road.
Ground into this dirt is a beer can multiplied into
a hundred beer cans, crushed, and I see them.
The hands that crushed these beer cans, under this bridge,
in this neighborhood that
if they still did the white-picket-fence thing
would be stuck in the middle of.

The hands attached to arms and bodies of adolescents,
youth with a mission.
To experience adulthood in a bottle, in a can.
Because, that’s what it’s all about. Doing the things
you’re not supposed to do, the things that are probably
bad for you but you get to do them anyways,
because you’re an adult and adults don’t have to be
told what to do.
Because adults make the rules.

Because adults make the rules.
They don’t have bed times or homework and they
get car keys and credit cards and they get to drink
And they get to drink as much as they want.

But we - these shadows of adolescents that might
very well have been here last night - we
well feign our adulthood. We will laugh in the
face of adults, who pretend that one day
wand-waves responsibility into our tight bodies
and mushy heads, and we will take the rules
and the car keys and the beer.
And we’ll hide them under a bridge.

We might even make a fire under the bridge
near the creek
and poke at living things straining over pebbles
to get to the deeper waters just down stream.
Because we’re all trying to get to the deeper waters
just down stream, and if we get there first…well,
that will mean something.
I’m sure.

Around a fire, these shadows in broad daylight hoop
and holler and make the ruckus that should be
made by 15 year olds when trying out beer for the first time.
That should be raised when you smoke that first
rolled up grown thing.

See the ruckus is not the problem. No. The fire
dancing and the beer drinking. No. That’s not the problem
for these shadows that are the hands that are the bodies.
The problem is the dirt that got caked on the knees
of the jeans and in the folds of the skin from climbing
out of that spot under the bridge where nothing grows.

The problems only arise from the brown hands
palms precisely
indicating the climb.
These are the giveaways, see. The giveaways to those that
have made the rules requiring the space under the bridge.
The dirty pores and the breath, taste of liquor lingering,
and the smell of ash from the fire probably made.
But if we didn’t make the rules, we wouldn’t need the space.

They wouldn’t need the space.

Speculation, though, because all that is left is beer cans.
We should be building the white picket fence around this spot
under the bridge, because I’m damn sure it felt like home.


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