America

America, To Me

I lived in a place where life was always happening somewhere else. Anyway, I left-- not seeking old pals, or better times or peace of mind--- I was not looking to get anywhere.

I am fine with being nowhere. But I need to be trying for something better. I need to stay in motion.

Although I am now only an observer of what I’ve seen, I regularly assault myself with questions and harsh accusations that I can seldom respond to. A fog of old missteps shudders, and then emerges like Venus from the cold depths of old love. I can't see the answers through this mess.

Years ago I bumped into an old lover who still seemed fond of me. I offer him a sofa but he coolly blows me off. Later, I dreamed that he turns back around, accepts his old flame’s kindness, and finds himself reduced to tears by her pure and undiminished loyalty.

In real life he wakes up early and slides away. Nowadays, he appears far too estranged and exhausted to respond.

I no longer play Benedict Arnold to my younger self, denying my own identity or ducking the hard times which happened twenty-five or thirty-five or forty years ago. I find intimacy with the long-ago inhabitants of another place.

My lack of health complicates everything. Our --mine and America’s-- failing memory is unable to look the chaos that we have failed to keep under control in the eye.

In a sad land like America, fantasies beat out cruel facts. They organize my life in the manner of a good vacation—departing, enjoying, happily returning home-- while the truth is eternally unknowable and pulls me up short and back to square one every time.