Emily Kirchner

It's a gloriously dreary day in Brooklyn.
The city is blanketed under irony
like a cloudy sky,
shading us from bright harsh banality
Or maybe it's sincerity, because
Who wouldn't want to ride a unicycle
powered by craft beer and trip hop?

Rain waters the parts of me
that have been dry for so long
and I'm no longer rooted to the ground.

Since the start of this pilgrimage,
I've learned about
Spongebob Squarepants the Musical,
and seen a restaurant sign that says,
"We have but one rule:
Come in dancing or you won't be served!"
I don't know how to dance, but
maybe I've never stopped.

Brooklyn is
my cousin welcoming me with Sandman comics,
seafood pancakes,
Magritte paintings,
and her friend with spiky purple hair
that pokes at posh Manhattan.

I have followed the trail of breadcrumbs
Which are actually vintage vinyl records,
and the sky rains Sambuca.

Brooklyn is a mitzvah.
It's the Promised Land of bagels and lox,
not milk and honey.
Brooklyn reminds me of my grandma,
and she was a fucking badass.

Brooklyn is hip hop emanating from underground,
Planted and growing
in leaves that never left.

Brooklyn is a mural of
black women raising their fists with
arms as pillars of hope.

Brooklyn is a verb.

Brooklyn is a parallel universe where another version of me exists,
and I might meet her
for an overpriced brunch of $10 eggs,
but god damn,
the Bloody Mary is worth it.

Brooklyn is the place where I converge with my other self,
Stepping through the looking glass
into a wonderland that looks like brownstone buildings bleeding rainbow graffiti,
and a street light that beams you up to a UFO:
Urban Flourishing Oasis.
It's raining, and
these clouds will carry you
up to your higher self.