It seems like forever since I last took this walk. Down now I go the hill I climbed so many months ago. The Flushing church, the Broadway bridge. Gyros at midpoint. Sublease down the street.
It was light when I came in, and now it’s dark.
The two nugs in my pocket jingling against my phone. A marking for my mugging. Cops and crooks onto the skunk and his prize. Hordes of children banging the rutter through the storefront, fall into my past. Away as I slip into the Jews of home, the portal opening, away as I slip from this city, the pinnacle of success. Moloch, trash on the streets. Moloch, such high rent. Moloch, rats and roaches. Moloch, the storefront closed, the movement on the move.
Paris are you there? Future after home, a home more home than any other.
Moloch to Mormons, the Jews a fond farewell.
So this is goodbye.
If I could have my family with me forever wherever, I would. I would stay. The steel front churning me closer into its revenge, holding them all hostage, my father’s surrogate dream, pulling me in to quell the spark that I now still carry.
Away as I slip into my thirties. Hold tight rein bound rider.
You’ve made your bed, says my dad. And we threw it to the curb. I was twenty three when I had you, a man now, or so they tell me. Still playing Peter Pan though, I see. I’ve got Hook here on the line still if you want it, patiently awaiting your loss of limb.
Keep the beams out of my eye, I say. I’m still trying to fly, and doing it already. Because trying is flying, Dad. Away as I slip into my mind, coloring the world more to my making.
It’s an underground railroad, Dad, because this home is no home of mine, because I have no home. But I’m still just wanting to touch whatever there is left of you. You are fading and changing. Since we last spoke, you are so new and changing still.
The blood of McBeth streaming down the windshield. Sanders takes another hit. Arizona streaming down the neighborhood. Affiliation discombobulated.
The gray hairs are like the crown of our family, aren’t they Dad? Moloch, such authoritarian rule. Moloch, the man of the house. We are all wounded kings, aren’t we Dad? But are you hungry like I’m hungry, and we’re running out of food, and I’ll take the soup if you’ve got it because I don’t want the shop.
We’ll see, he says. Your have only just begun your family.