Outside the window other cars stream by like toys on a track; they stop and start as if by meaningless remote control, whizzing by while equally plastic pedestrians meander and stop and cross streets and enter and come out of buildings. Everything seems fake, small and inconsequential. None of the people care about your loss, and nothing can shroud how rude and inconsiderate they all are. Not one person stops and bows, and not one car pulls over and pauses at the side of the road as you and your parents drive by--not one.
After a day outside in the snow he spent at least ten minutes in the hallway taking off the winter gear.
His freezing gloves
and their iciclestiff digits came first;
next was his icespeckled cap,
and finally the drenched snowsuit
and all else beneath.
They were all left in a soggy pile in the basement. It looked at times as if a body had melted by the furnace and left only its clothes.
He rushed upstairs rapidly into the heat
and was met with a bowl of soup
a warm bath
or some blankets in the TV room
and the window behind him
that framed the snowscene outside,
the naked, icewhite trees,
the albinograss smothered under,
whole wheat fields of white,
whole visions turned blue at dusk,
Holy scenes turned grey in the dark,
the path of streetlamplight
invaded eventually with the falling static.
I remember beginning to miss it all
That’s Christmas, isn’t it? Green trees plastic or real, fantastic wrapping paper, red and decorated bows under the trees and, hidden among the boxes, cats that arch up suddenly and smack the hanging ornaments that swirl in the heat.
Parkinglot pavement’s a little different. There’s some yellowpainted speedbumps-similar to the logs you find in the woods-that help shove you and your bike into the air. The large expanse of empty parking space is next, a few cars parked neatly between the lines that mean nothing to someone under the age of sixteen. The fading arrows are ignored as well,
the curving ones and the straightaways
that lead to garages or the sides of buildings
or to the proper exits-
proper to those who park, that is,
correct for those who drive, you see,
but nearly nonexistent to those who are free.
A pair of caked hands,
muddy digits drenched in the humidity,
burst through clouds of dust
to wrestle with the world:
pop bottles, pop cans,
door handles and locks,
bike pumps and garden hoses,
squirtgun triggers and baseball mitts.
The chubby hands,
their nails chewed like raggedrock,
curl into a fist to fight
or open to slap a smudge
on the front window.
I remember the pantheons of recess gods, jumprope goddesses, and the monitoring monsters who claimed we played too rough
When you’re dropped off at school in the morning (or picked up in the afternoon), immediate judgments are made concerning your appearance and your parents and your parents’ car. Your bookbag and coat tell a lot, as do your binders and folders. Anything ragged and old, or of an awkward colour scheme, or something obviously handed down from your older brother or sister-these are all wrong. And to show affection (especially if you’re a boy) to either of your parents is a major mistake.
You have to be certain that you arrive in the right car and have the right kind of backpack,
You have to know the right phrases,
You have to admit to having interest in the right music, television shows, and movies,
You have to watch what you say
and who you say it to
who you stand with
and when
and for how long.
You have to be conscious of what you write with,
what brand of pens or pencils or crayons,
and what you decorate your folders with.
You have to pay attention to who you sit by
and who sits by you,
and where you sit as well:
by which window or blackboard or table
close or far away from the teacher
in the middle of the row
in front or in back of the row
-and how close to a pencil sharpener?
These things, these matters of territory and pride-they
are the beginning of accepted
behavior that will wrap around you and your peers like invisible chains,
chains that mean nothing, really,
that don’t even exist, but yet hold you down nevertheless. To shrug the steel off would be unbearable,
to change,
to stand up while everyone else sits,
to step outside of the rigid circle of meaningless webs-nonsense. Who would dare do such a thing? After all,
walls never crumble
curtains are never torn down
decisions are never overturned
recalls are never made
revolutions are never fought
new countries are never founded
and nothing is ever invented that isn’t already here: what you see is that society isn’t based on constant rebirth and growth, but rather on the reliance and fearful preservation of old and cobwebbed ways.
You see it all around you,
this safety,
and you follow it.
It makes you happy.
It’s easy.
You smile.
You sleep and rise and live in a world
where death does not exist.
