Letter to the Black Beyond:
In Philadelphia, the sun sets on post modern ghetto fallout. I’ve passed though a seemingly endless corridor of poverty and sadness, somehow broken up by the spirit to survive. We’ve crossed rivers and wetlands and ducked under whole cities to avoid traps that cause us to stop.
I’m desperate for a cigarette. It’s been some time now and I swear they are calling my name – the smokes that is. But I’ll survive. Maybe.
We’ve stopped and I’ve been offered a seat in the café car, but no good comes from sitting down for too long. She tells me she’s in sales – floor coverings. I wonder if sales attracts a naturally boisterous person or if it turns them into them. She’s from Ohio; she glad she doesn’t have an Ohio accent. I’m not really from anywhere, but I say I’m from Connecticut; weird little countries in a bigger one.
The number of abandoned warehouses along the train tracks is nearly unthinkable. It speaks to a more prosperous time when tracks guided the path our economy took – a time descended from Manifest Destiny.
I’m a poet on a train for a job interview – a gypsy if you will, or a nomad. I remember in school learning about Bedouins and nomads, but I never imagined I would be classified by one of those words. Delaware at night. I remember there’s a town called Dover, and I think it’s the biggest one. I just saw the “Howard R. Young – Correctional Institute”. All concrete building very brightly lit, but with no color. I feel bad for Mr. Young. Who would be proud of their name on a place meant to turn people into animals? It’s on the way to Wilmington.
There’s an ad at the Wilmington stop for ING Direct. There are two women facing each other across a desk with some flowers in the background. The ING woman has a cartoon bubble over her head that says, “There is no Tom. I send the flowers to myself.” The caption reads: ING Direct, as open and direct as you. I’m not impressed with their openness; I’m impressed with their loneliness. I wonder if that ad wasn’t some sad expression or self confession by its creator lost in a jungle of taupe cubicles.
After the interview: very friendly people. They seem to be impressed by all the security and corporate-ness of everything. I stopped seeing beauty in concrete and glass a while ago. I think it was somewhere in L.A. that the novelty wore off. I like wooden desks, bricks and fine masonry; I like a world that has its own character, not a blank canvas where nothing is planned for the drab shells. Whatever the reason – it saves money or it doesn’t offend, either way, I prefer an object that I can communicate with. These empty walls and raped landscapes make me sad and depressed.
I know I could do this job that I’m interviewing for, but I don’t know if my soul can take it. It’s been nearly 5 months now without badging in to a building and I can still feel the anxiety from it just watching other people do it. It really freaks me out. I’ve no other words for it.
I wonder if I were to get out of where I am now, would I be able to get back into it? I’ve always been anti-corporate. I remember once telling Cara that I hoped she never went corporate. That was while I was still in the navy, before we were married. It feels like it’s been a hundred years since then. I’ve recreated myself a hundred times over since then.
NOTE: It’s a real bitch to write on the train.
We’ve stopped at BWI and there’s a bunch of guys discussing train tests. I din’t know there tests for train conductors. Hmm. CSX and stuff. Perhaps their going for an engineers thing.
The landscape is absolutely amazing. Wetlands frozen over – the human touch seems a little lighter. Almost all the employees on the train are black. I wonder if they are paid OK. The graffiti on the bridge walls is really well done. They paint over it with beige. I can’t figure out why. Why would someone want to destroy the art that makes something so ugly become so beautiful?
I used to think that one day I’d be something other people talk about. Not so, at least for now. I don’t remember why I thought those odd things.
I’m in New Jersey now and I hate it. I don’t know if it’s because of all the sad New Jersey jokes I’ve told that now, I have to hate it or I become something I hate – prejudiced. I fell asleep earlier and wound up drooling on my tie. A bit embarrassing, but somehow fitting, another mindless drone with a tie on. They should all drool on themselves. We, I mean.
I spewed poetry after waking up for some reason. I mean I don’t know the reason I woke up. Even this morning, why didn’t I just keep on sleeping like I wanted too? Instead I got up and dressed and tied my tie. You don’t even notice it really when you stick the noose around your neck.
The guy next to me is talking so softly on his phone I can’t eaves drop. I can’t judge his character in his conversation with his friends. It’s maddening. I think I woke up to a dream, but I can’t be sure. I know I’ve been having dreams, but I don’t what they are, like I might have lived a million lives, but I can’t rememb3er them. It’s an eerie feeling.
The lady next to me says “Hallo” when she answers her cell phone. I bet she would think it odd being referred to as a lady. She’s really just a girl, probably younger than I (most likely). I find she’s a law student at Georgetown in Washington D.C. She’s going to go into litigation, now that she’s given up on her dreams of being a helpful lawyer by working with the ACLU.
There’s this blonde goddess from the back – I’m sitting behind her a few seats, and goddamn if she isn’t radiating a halo just like the baby Jesus, except Jesus had a cock and she’s a well spring of life between her legs. Jesus couldn’t make life without a shit to make it for him, but this bitch – she’s a well spring I tell you.
I’ve had too much to drink and I’m feeling ornery. I go take a whiz to relieve the several beers from the café car. In the train bathroom I decide I want to piss in the sink, but I don’t. I want to lie to seem more… screwed up than I actually am. This whole train is a sad lot of souls traveling away from something.
We’ve stopped in Stamford. I hate Stamford. I always have. It’s a city of rats and losers – a whole lot of them. They’re the kind of people who bet on a bird in a cat fight. Everyone knows 9 times out of 10, the cat wins even if it’s an eagle.
But anyhow, the blonde is still here, though I don’t know why. Like Christ, she’s waiting for her cross. Well, now she’s knows I’m her cross. All the blonds I’ve ever known well end up on my cross, crucified for my pleasure. I always wanted to jack off to the catholic crucifixion pictures. Goddamn those made me hot. It probably doesn’t matter unless you’re catholic – they’re always upset at shit people do, but they never care what they do. I think she’s catholic cause she’s on the diet coke and some sad read of crap. Toilet reading really. A lot of short sentence shit so when it’s time to wipe, you can – and quick – cause you’re not in the middle of some great thought.
I don’t write my stuff for the toilet, rather, I imagine some prick jerking off in the last aisle of books at some library. I would. I’d stroke and heave on the Dewey Decimal System. What idiot decided to call it that. It must have been some kind of joke; the other librarians making fun of Dewey and his decimals, but it stuck. I bet they’re mad as hell now. I know I am.