Last Tuesday

Last Tuesday
 
I. (Last Tuesday)
 
I’m still incredulous.
At first I could have sworn that it was a joke,
or a highly stupid mistake.
"Nobody misses that."
I said to Mike Trundy
at the Wyndham Hotel.
Jared and I went into the Winsors Bar
where the hotel guests had gathered
and nobody was going anywhere soon.
Everything happened in a flash
a great and terrible flash in the sky
and all I can think is how many people’s lives are wasted,
what purpose does this serve?
There is panic in the air I breathe
there is panic on the ground.
We’ve moved outside onto the square now
to watch the world on the giant television hanging
from the front of the building
on Playhouse Square.
There’s just thick, black smoke
and no real answers to be had in it.
Is this truly what human beings are capable of doing
to each other?
I am sick,
I can’t breathe.
There are people jumping out of windows
and I cry all the way down.
Extinguished.
Blotted from life.
Who gave anyone that authority?
Raw pain just turns to hurt
and I’m uneasy
as I ride the #22 down Lorain Road
past the Arab - owned businesses that night,
last Tuesday.
At home at Norb & Dot’s or anywhere
there will be no escaping it.
It is everywhere.
I am livid at myself.
I prayed for years to let me live past the draft age
without being called.
God gave me what I asked for,
but funny how things turn out.
My son now lives in this world
and he’s barely a year old.
There’s no going back,
everyone’s affected, even the guys waving the flags at the corner
holding the signs that say "honk if you love U.S.A."
Will they be there in a week?
Or ten days?
There’s blood to be had
pouring in to every Red - Cross
but not nearly enough living victims.
Darkness.
Building 7 comes down ignonomously
in a light drizzle.
 
II. (Path Station - June, 2005)
 
There’s nothing to warn me of my approach to it.
I walk down Broadway vaguely looking for Battery Park
knowing from CNN and Headline News that if I find it
I’ll be relatively close.
About a quarter - mile ahead past city hall
is a chain link fence with
"World Trade Center PATH Station."
This is a pit.
I refuse to call it "ground zero,"
or to label it in anyway.
This is a grave,
sacred ground.
Somewhere inside there is a primal scream.
Nothing articulate just pain,
raw emotion and pain.
Everyone I’ve met on this vacation
most likely knew someone who is still here
and will be here forever.
There are temporary walkways around the perimeter,
enclosed in glass.
One of them leads to one financial center
and I read up all on the muddled plans for redevelopment
that a year later haven’t gone any further.
This is a grave,
this is a pit
in the truest sense of the word.
Guided tours are available every hour
and I’m not sure which makes me more nauseated.
Thankfully, this is not the majority view.
Godspeed, New York.
 
III. (Steven)
 
He is affected.
I met him this morning in the usual temp - employer role
as he reported to me.
I can tell he’s ex or current military.
Army to be precise,
reserves to be more precise.
Been serving 15 years I’ve found out.
"Have you been deployed?"
I ask him.
"Twice, to Afghanistan and the Gulf" he tells me.
I think of the boys from Brookpark and Karen Polamsky’s son.
I think of Nick Berg, and Daniel Pearl
and what did they lose their heads for?
Whose freedom are we fighting for? I will not judge that.
I can tell you it is no ordinary man who walks into hell
and tells you "it’s just what I do, sir."
I think of Summer, and the birthday she’ll never have again.
And my children,
I hope their lives are safe.
Perhaps this is the world that people like Steven are fighting to save.
Godspeed, Steven.
 
 
Part IV. (Gates of Hell)
 
There aren’t any windows
 in the side of this building.
It is scaffolding, skeletal
and burnt even now.
Everything here is construction /
demolition /
and memorial
commingling with the ways of the world
and finance
and business.
Things are back to normal,
but not to the way they were.
At least not here.
There is daylight through the atrium,
and graffiti on the temporary outdoor wall
which reads:
"remember, Jesus loves the people you hate."
This is so different in scope and scale than anything I’ve seen before.
Everything else I had seen had been so small,
Dealey Plaza was tiny
but seemed larger than life in "JFK."
This is enormous
just a gaping wound at the edge of the great city.
The smart alek cop on Broadway
lived through this place
through these fiery gates of hell.
I walk out the rear door onto a small plaza.
Here is the Hudson
I went to school upriver.
Lady Liberty is closed just across the way.
I remember barely seeing her through the smoke and ash.
I remember Joe Delguidice from Jersey.
I remember Anthony, and his brother Frank
and how they must have cried.
I’ve never met a rude person from the five Burroughs.
Up the street,
past the buildings which still haven’t been torn down
just carefully dismantled bit by bit
with the "danger! Asbestos" signs at ground level
is a serviceable Indian restaurant
serving serviceable Indian fast - food.
I sat in the seats of the dead.
I walked in the footsteps of the dead in this place.
 
 
 
 
Part V. (Falling Man)
 
It’s 7 o clock
turn away from the tube.
I can’t watch this play out,
I’m choking to death.
It is bitter and sore
a thousand feet down.
It is bitter and sore
when you’ve nowhere to run.
I can’t judge you
I’m not there,
what device went through your head?
How do I honor your life?
All I know you is from this:
falling man
a thousand feet down.
Triangle Shirtwaist memories
and your life’s in your hands
but for a brief moment.
Flickers out
and there’s sorrow all around
we marched to different drums
in Hoboken and Soho
in Queens and Jamaica Plains.