11.25.2002

Eternal Incompletion; the time is out of joint

I march through the park, down the avenue--untouchable, everything remains on distant sidelines, like a Pink Floyd album cover. One of the last sparrows in the city hops alongside me as a 747 moves through the cloudless sky. There's a young Mexican family, dressed in sports casual. Track suits and logoed sweatshirt jackets and of course, the ubiquitous baseball hat. There's a Black guy trying to sleep on a bench between the staircases for the 1 and the 9 and the 2 and the 3, a white guy peering into the overstuffed trash. I'm glad everyone's doing exactly what they're doing, I wouldn't have it any other way. All the freaks and the losers. But I'm alone in the city.

All this time I've wanted a time out, a pass, a chance to count sheep. Maybe to fuck around with some girls--race a car or a bike or two. But now that she's gone, and I'm by myself, I'm berated by thoughts of her. In a way, it was better before Saturday. At least then, when she hadn't posted, I could fantasize that she'd been hit by a truck. So what if it's hyperbolic...but to have hardcore proof that she's alive--and making cash, no less. It's bittersweet like sour apple Jolly Ranchers. It makes me head out into the street, looking for trouble.

It used to be that no matter what she did--what stunt she pulled--I'd go along with it, say it was cool even..."Just keep representing TRUE, I don't give a fuck, as long as you represent..."

Things have changed.

Underground vibrations rattle a row of aluminum garage doors. Above them a sign bears only a telephone number. The kids on bikes call out to each other in Spanish, a Labador pokes hurriedly around a mailbox. The gutters are lined with trash and white daisy petals.

I'm choking with it, this surge of life and love, too violent in its uprising to be permanent. Now I'm suped-up, ready to blow-up, if not for these difficult loves strapped across my chest.

Styrofoam containers scrape along the blacktop in the sudden breeze which lifts the pin faces of the bickering Polish housewives towards the far end of the sky, where the gleaming Twin Towers used to oversee us all.

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