There it finally was - the crummy hotel overlooking Washington Square that Joan Baez sang about. I’ve been wanting to make this pilgrimage for quite some time, desperately wanting follow Bob Dylan’s footsteps any way that I could. I excitedly ran inside to the check-in counter. I gave them my name in a rush, they gave me my room key with a skeptical look, and I half-jogged up the stairs all the way to the eighth floor, smiling all the while. I jammed my room key into the door, flung it open, and threw my backpack on the bed. I ran to the window, opened it, and looked out - just like in the song.

After taking in the view, I eventually sat on the bed next to my backpack and took out my phone to look for open mic poetry nearby. There had to be some. There was even more than I expected within six blocks. A few started very late and were 21+ so my nineteen-year-old self had to cross those off the list. That left one at a pizza shop right next to the hotel, one at a cafe a block away, and one at jazz bar two blocks away. I called the jazz bar and asked if they were 21+. They weren’t, but they would put crosses on my hands if I was okay with that. I figured that was a fair exchange and got dressed to walk over. My outfit included jeans with poorly handmade tears in the knees, a Nirvana T-shirt under a faux leather coat, and a cheap newsman hat with Bob Dylan and Leonard Cohen pins on it. I stood in front of the mirror before leaving, making sure I looked the part. _I’m here because I’m a poet. I’m a poet, dammit. I’m the next Dylan._

__ _ _I walked the two blocks over feeling like I was floating. I imagined what everyone who passed me on the sidewalks must have thought. I had no doubt that they all thought I was some sort of prodigy artist. How could I not be? I thought. _Look at all the dead people before my time that I’m adorning! I obviously know what I’m talking about! _And then I opened the door to the jazz bar. I was alone. The bar was at capacity, but I was alone. I was the only white person, but that wasn’t why the feeling of great solitude grasped me - it was because every African-American was well dressed in suits or dresses, had nice hats on, drank liquor instead of beer, and exuded confidence. It was like being transported into a Fitzgerald book. The clones turned and looked at me for a brief second, and then continued their conversations. I stood frozen and ignored until a young man came out of the bathroom. He dressed similar to me, except he had long dreadlocks and traded my Nirvana shirt for a Marvin Gaye one. He approached me. “Sorry, my man.” He said with a large smile. “Can I see I.D.?” “Oh, yes.” I said and fumbled with my wallet. I eventually took out my I.D and handed it to him. He looked it over and asked me if I moved here or was just passing though. I told him passing through, and then he squinted his eyes at me. “Want a drink?” He asked. “Uh, nineteen.” I said. “Shush, man! You the Feds?” He whispered. “I got you.” He walked me to the bar and asked what I wanted. I shrugged, so he ordered two Old Fashioneds. I told him that was fitting and we cheers’d when they arrived. I took a sip and almost gagged. “So, what brings you here, young buck?” He asked. “Uh, this.” I said. “Wanted to feel inspired.” “You a poet?” He asked, and before I could nod he yelled, “Of course you are! Isn’t everybody?” I looked at him, and he continued in a hushed voice, “We are all. Everyone in this damn room is.” “Great!” I said with a crack in my voice. “That’s, uh, what I came for!” I let out a nervous chuckle and he pounced like a shark. “How many poems have you written?” “Uh, maybe like forty?” I said and gulped. “Rookie, huh. I knew it.” He took a big gulp of his cocktail. “You getting on stage, right?” I looked around and forced down my own big gulp. “Uh, no, thanks. I didn’t bring any, and uh, I don’t think it would be my right, uh… crowd?” I winced as I said the last word. He stared a hole through my eyes and got real close to my face with his own face. I swallowed hard and stared back into his eyes, hearing my mother’s voice in my head telling me how stupid I was to think I could handle a situation like this. His nose touched my nose, and then he started laughing hysterically. “I’m messin’ with you, boy!” He screamed. “Damn, Dragonfly, leave the poor kid alone!” Said one patron. “AHHH, he got him!” Said another, and soon the whole bar was laughing. “Sorry about that, man. Couldn’t help myself.” He wiped his eyes and signaled for another Old Fashioned. “My name is Dragonfly. I actually am starting off the show.” “Opening, huh? That takes balls.” I told him. “I’m young enough to take chances. I’m two years older than you, kid, and everyone in the poetry scene knows me. That’s why I open - so people can’t get all sleepy on me. If you are remotely tired and thinking of bed and see a twenty-one year old come onstage, your ass is out!” We shared a good laugh until Dragonfly abruptly grabbed what was left of his cocktail and yelled, “Be right back!” Before I could say “Okay” he was on the stage and introducing himself.

The whole place gave Dragonfly a great ovation upon him just saying his name. I didn’t think too much of it, as they were probably just expected to be ultra-supportive towards each other, especially at a volunteer open mic. He started on his first poem with no paper to read from. It was almost like a rap. It was extremely political for a man of such a young age. It was like listening to Tupac in a cappella. He changed flows, acted out his content, screamed, whispered. The pain of his words hit my skin like lightning bolts. He did four poems, all several minutes long, all acted out, and all memorized. I was in so much awe that I didn’t touch my cocktail during his reading. He got a standing ovation when he finished, took it in for only ten seconds, then ran back over to where I was. “What did you think?” He asked, smiling as big as he was when he first greeted me. “I think you burned about twelve-hundred calories in ten minutes.” I said. He laughed heartily. “It was absolutely breathtaking.” I continued. “I have never heard anything like that.” “It’s all in the history books, my brother.” He said. “No, no, not the context. The style, the flow, it was hip hop. Where were your poems? How did you memorize all of that?” “HAAAAAAA” He let out while almost falling off his barstool. “You’ve never heard of Spoken Word?” He asked with his head tilted like a dog. “Uh, not if that’s what you just did.” “Not just me. All of them.” He pointed out to every patron in the bar. A new face came on the stage. “Watch.” Said Dragonfly, and we did.

We stayed for four hours watching every single Spoken Word poet. We drank a new cocktail for each reading. He broke down each poet’s background and accomplishments. We wrote together in-between readers, him trying to write tradional poetry, and me trying spitball Spoken Word. During this time I vowed three things: to never touch another Old Fashioned, to leave Spoken Word to the ones who can do it, and to always keep in touch with Dragonfly. He vowed two-out-of-the-three. When all the poets were done we walked out into the street. We exchanged numbers and email and went our separate ways. I woke up just in time for checkout the next morning. I groggily got myself together and made the drive home, all the while thinking of all the poems I would send to Dragonfly to impress him. I was excited to see an email from him and friend requests on my social media by the time I got home. He said he was mailing out a homemade chapbook of his poems for me and two days later it came in the mail. It was nicely made. Full color, twenty pages, but obviously hand-stapled. I read it in an hour, feasting green on every page, every line. I ran to my computer to send him an instant message, but his social media accounts were all de-activated. I tried emailed him my feelings of inspiration and envy, but he came back that the email could not be found. Out of desperation, I tried calling him, and got the disconnected tone.

Every couple of years I attempt to search for him. I search on social media, on Goodreads, and in obituaries. He hasn’t made it on any of those. It seems he only made it on my shelf. And now, this piece. And for that, I am sorry.