Street Writing

I’m a street writer, which simply means I wander and wonder through the streets and write about who I meet, what I see and hear, when and where I’m wandering and wondering, why I think things are the way they are around me, and how I think they could be more human.

A street writer.

One of the serendipities of being a street writer is bumping into other street writers during my wanderings and wonderings.

Today, I bumped into Blue.

He was sitting on a brick wall by the sidewalk near the Poinsett Hotel.

There was a small stack of books beside him.

“Hey,” I greeted him. “Did you write those books?”

“Yea,” he answered. “They’re poems I wrote and turned into chapbooks.”

“Are you from Greenville?” I asked.

“No, I’m from Harlem. A Harlem poet.”

“Wow!” I said. I love Harlem. Great art comes from there. It’s an honor to meet you.

I’m a writer, too.

I’m from Greenville. A Greenville writer.”

We gave each other a fist bumps.

“It’s an honor to meet you, too,” he said.

He told me his story about being a writer.

I told him mine.

He’s read poems at The Bowery Poetry Club and Open Mic at Under Saint Marks in NYC, some famous places for poetry sharing.

“How much you sellin’ your chapbook for?” I asked.

“Ten dollars,” he answered.

I handed him a ten spot and he handed me a book.

I know how much heart, soul, mind, strength and body you put into writing, so I held his chapbook with deep gratitude and appreciation.

It’s titled ‘Corner Stores In The Middle Of The Block.’

I love the way it begins.

“The good thing about learning a new language is…you must think…before you speak…”

My, my, my.

Yes, yes, yes.

How true, how true.

“Can I sign my book for you, my friend?” he asked.

“Of course,” I said. “That would make my day.”

He took out an old pen from a plastic bag and scribbled, “Peace Bro. Thanks a million. Blue. July 2021.”

Thanks a million to you, too, Blue.

Thanks for being a writer.

A street writer.

Thanks for being you.