9.11.10 workshop
just some short pieces written during workshop on Sat. 9.11.10.
There's a line of firemen - firefighters we're supposed to call them - all in uniform. Standing at attention. The bagpipes have just played. like they do. like they seemed to every day three times a day for months after. there are no birds here. only traffic. only tourists. only us. On the podium there is a very short man - the Mayor - trying to read poetry and failing miserably with that voice of his made for quoting stock prices, market short-falls. I cannot focus on the words. I am thinking instead of: a cabin in the woods. Gulf shrimp. fried. hot sauce. a pale blue sky. tattered clouds. an old crush. his smile. his tattoos. his quiet way and the trail of noise he left in his wake. loud guitars. my new shoes hurt my feet. all this standing and standing. I listen to the bell chime. The list of names. The way the construction workers mangle the pronunciations. All the ways we chose to remember. All the ways we choose to forget. I am thinking of a second line band. Mardi Gras Day. A dry martini at the Carousel Bar. the Monteleone. all those drowned books. the way the sun hits green eyes. turns them gold. The hot sand on my feet. the long walk to the waves and then, diving in, coming up to jelly fish. a sunburn. I shift my weight - foot to foot. My sprained wrist aches. I stare straight ahead. studying the way the flags move in the breeze off the river. Some days down there I can still smell smoke. feel that greasy ash on my skin. my clothes. the old blue sweatshirt I threw away. I can still see the shape of his face. those cheekbones. a spray of freckles. I can still see the road north. and all the roads between then and now. They days, the years blur but certain moments, images, stand out. the difference between a shrimp boat and a lobster boat. the banks of the Mississippi. the banks of the Hudson. the East River. the Cliffs of Maine. I am forgetting all the names. I must listen for the right one and then leave. I am thinking instead of a sunwashed porch. peeling paint. the way the sun hits green eyes. condensation on a glass of lemon verbeena iced tea. the taste of fresh mint. His knee touching mine. staying a moment too long. the road north. All the ways we choose to remember. All the ways we choose to forget.
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