Lower Manhattan & Harrowing Memories
Wind darts through the West Village like two kids playing tag, here one second and gone the next. Its presence adds a layer of warmth to a crisp Manhattan evening.
Women are bundled up in wool jackets, smart-looking gloves, and scarves of varying lengths to keep their pale winter necks warm.
“The Boxer” quietly floats out of a bookstore…
In the clearing stands a boxer
And a fighter by his trade
And he carriers the reminders Of every glove that laid him down Or cut him till he cried out In his anger and his shame
And I’m reminded of Paul Simon singing it after 9/11. It makes me so fucking angry I cry.
I cry for the jumpers…for their courage to avoid a death that every man fears, in exchange for one they never thought of.
I cry for the people who had to make calls that would echo in their spouses’ heads for eternity.
I cry for the firemen who selflessly ran into hell
I cry for the terror of parents
and grandparents
and uncles and aunts and cousins
and lovers
and friends
and everyone who screamed at God that day…their exhausted souls shaking uncontrollably
I cry for everyone who never walked in a church again
for everyone who still hates God and can’t reconcile any of it
I cry for the anger we felt
for the pain
for the violence we wanted to pour upon someone, anyone, everyone
for the hatred of an intransigent enemy that we knew nothing about
for the demons we fought in our minds…the demons who knew we weren’t in a position to negotiate
for the killing that was going to inevitably take place by young men in uniforms
Young men who didn’t have access to Officer Candidacy School
Young men who our senators and congressmen sacrificed on an altar that their sons would never be placed upon
Young men who trusted authority
Young men who bought a lie told by every government going back to Leonidas and Charlemagne
Young men full of enthusiasms
Young men who would die on foreign land
Young men who will never have wives and babies
Never have another bowl of ice cream
Never play another game of cards
Never see another ball game
Never hold a niece or nephew
Never kiss another woman or feel their embrace
Never have a woman run her fingers through the hair on his scalp, as he sighs and closes his eyes
Never tell his mother he loves her again
Never feel the tug of a fish on the end of a pole again
Never laugh again
Never sink his teeth into an apple again
Never smell charcoal burning at the bottom of a Fourth of July grill
Never feel the warmth of a summer day on his young skin
Never feel the rush of seeing a gorgeous woman or the thrill of driving a fast car
Never be a man again
Just a body in a flag covered box on its way back to his country, his state, his hometown…to be buried in American soil
the same soil he played in as a boy
the same soil he planted azaleas in for his mother
soil that was once trapped beneath his fingernails
soil that he never paid attention to, but his government made sure he spends eternity in
I cry for the parents who lost their baby boys
I cry for the way of life we lost and will never have again
for my children who will never know a pre-9/11 America
I cry
I feel it so deep inside of me…so deep that I shake my head with visions of awful violence
That someone needs to pay the price of altering the future of my nation
A price greater than consecutive life sentences in a supermax in Colorado
A price so much greater than water boarding
A price so much greater than anything protected by the Geneva Conventions
A price we aren’t supposed to say out loud
A price born of apoplectic rage
A price that defies all humanity
A price I wouldn’t wish on anyone, but someone must pay
Someone must be brutalized … terribly ripped apart
With no mercy … no conscious
And then I’ll rest
But I won’t
