Revision--Future 86

The signs on the road, here
Say “Future 86.”
Like the road doesn’t even exist.
Like we’re driving to a place
That we want to go
But can’t.
Because it’s not ready.
Because we’re not ready.

It was winter,
The first time I looked over
At the black letters that shined
Against white,
And I listened to my father talk about plans
For construction that would
(Eventually)
Turn the road into an interstate.

Whatever the hell that entails.

He said they’d be finished by the time I was done here,
Squinting his eyes and rubbing the fog off
Of the windshield so that he could see through the night. 
He said that by the time I was out,
By the time I was grown,
The road would be done
And I, of course, would go on.

I asked him what he meant by “finished.”
I asked him what he meant by “grown.”
He shrugged his shoulders and said that
He didn’t quite know. 

As he talked
I sat in the passengers seat, rubbing my hands together to fight off the cold,
Thinking about where I would be
When this was all over.
I knew, of course.
Definitely.

Five years later, and they’re still not done.
The “Future 86” sign still looms,
Somewhere out in the darkness:
A reminder of unfinished business.
Of unfulfilled goals,
Missed opportunities,
Work still to be done.

And I,
I am not nearly done, either.
I find myself back in a place
With streets that are haunted
By people I have loved,
Mistakes I have made
And shadows of the person I was. 

It seems like decades have passed in six months.

I search the streets—
Up and and down
                            And down
                                   And   down
Hills.

These streets that I have walked, here
These towns that I have driven through countless
And countless times and times
And times and times
And time stops,
Here on these streets.

On the road to Wisconsin, 
The snow falls, against the odds, in an early September sky.
And we are running
As fast as we can.

Future 86.

There are signs on the side of this treacherously dark road
That read “Future I-86.”

As if the road doesn’t yet exist.
As if we’re driving to a place that we want to get to
But can’t.
Because it’s not ready.
Because we’re not ready.

The first time I looked over,
Across two lanes of empty, snowy road,
To the black letters that shined
Against white,
It was the middle of winter.
And I listened to my father talk about plans
That whatever powers-that-be had
To make the road an interstate.

Whatever the hell that entails.

By the time you’re done here,
They’ll be finished,” he said,
Squinting his eyes and rubbing the fog of
Of the windshield so that he could see through the night.

I asked him what he meant by “finished.”
He shrugged his shoulders and said that he didn’t quite know.

As he talked
I sat in the passengers seat, rubbing my hands together to fight off the cold,
Thinking about where I would be
When this was all over.
I knew, of course.
Definitely.

(At 18, one –of course—knows just about everything. Definitely)

Five years later and they’re still not done.
The “Future 86” sign still looms
Somewhere out in the darkness:
A reminder of unfinished business.
Of unfulfilled goals,
Missed opportunities,
Work still to be done.

And I,
I am not nearly done, either.
I find myself back in a place
With streets that are haunted
By people I have loved,
Mistakes I have made
And shadows of the person I was.

It seems like decades have passed in six months.

I search the streets—
Up and down
And down
And down
Hills.

These streets that I have walked, here
These towns that I have driven through
Counteless and countless times and times
And times and times
And time stops,
Here on these streets.

On the road to Wisconsin,
The snow falls, against the odds, in an early September sky.
And we are running
As fast as we can.

Things I have learned living in New York (installment 2)

No matter the ungodly hour at which one walks around, there are always harder-working, better people up and about as well.

Often, I'll get on the first train into Grand Centrnal (the 5:22)...or will stay at the Library until 2 or so; and generally when I do, I'll feel good and sorry for myself (Why am I awakeeeeeeeeeeeeee? This suckkkkks. Etc.). But then I'll catch the eye of one of the Doctors walking out of Roosevelt, or some suit-type sitting next to me on the train. And invariably their look will say "what the *hell* is the matter with *you?* You have no reason to have that look on your face--man up."

It's hard, then, not to realize that if one wants to do anything remotely meaningful in the world, one has to sweat every once in awhile--which is a good lesson if there ever was one.

This tends to be helpful in mustering up ambition, and curtailing pity-parties.
Good stuff, all around.

Things I have learned living in New York

1a) It is deceptively (and unnecessarily) hard to eat a bagel and walk at the same time. Invariably, one ends up with cream-cheese all over their faces.
At best.
It's often not a pretty sight.

1b) Bagels, in spite of their messiness, bring out the best in people. Once at Hot and Crusty (facial mess abounding) I was approached by a lovely young man with the coolest fucking journal I'd ever seen in my life--it was yellow and ornate, an was clearly handmade.

We had a conversation that went like this:

Me: Oh my God that Journal's amazing.
Him: Thanks! I got it in India over the summer. Check it--the pages are made out of leaves!
Me: Oh my GOD that's incredible. I'm so jealous.
Him: Do you write?
Me: Not well, but yes.
Him: Oh, well then. I actually happen to have an extra one in my bag. Take it.
Me: No that's ridiculous I absolutely...
Him: Just take it, and have a nice day.

...and the son of a bitch just walked the fuck away.

Sometimes, I have hope.

Not as good.

Grace

The newborn baby in your arms
Cries quietly as the subway car rattles
Back and forth,
Purposed and unyielding.

As the door shuts closed
You see a rat: black with
Anger and perseverance
Pick up a half eaten egg roll and scamper away.

The train begins again
To shake and screech
Deep underneath centuries and centuries of
Ebbing and flowing, shaking and screeching.

You check your watch,
And stroke your daughter’s head.

She’s crying into your still-tender breasts--
You lean into her baby-soft head, and sigh.
As the train pulls up to 191st street
You close your eyes and begin to hum.

From the next car a man walks in with a guitar
And plays an old Clapton song that’s always brought you to tears.
Misty eyed and dizzy, you give him a dollar
And ask him if he takes requests.

“This is New York, Lady. Of course not.”

You pick up your phone,
Dial the numbers that you have had etched into your memory
Since you were 26,
Let it ring two and a half times
--just like you’ve done three times this week--
and snap the screen shut
like a thin beak grasping for worms.

You turn your head to the man with the guitar
Now singing Lenard Cohen
Now opening the subway door
And lean your lips down
To your baby’s glistening head.

I shouldn't.

Messages to Two.

I would love to, yes. But I don't trust you as far as I could throw you when you used to weigh 280 lbs; which isn't far at all. We haven't, no, in about a month and I'm going a bit crazy. It would certainly be nice... you know.
I just wish you didn't suck so much.

Also: I've found a replacement for you. With someone that thinks they are, but isn't half of what you were. I think I've outgrown the need; I should have by now--I'm 22. I'm trying.