Forever jubilant

The neighbors are having a party next-door, painting the night
the color of Austin. They are unaware that underneath the balcony
the detectives are collecting information about them to sell
on the open markets of Sundays after parties. The phone

is wire-tapped, some of the guests are fake, not really guests
nor revellers, but people whose faces seem to slide off in your
memory like a dream when you are waking up. You remember
a grocery bag, an urgency, but nothing more. It'll come back

to you someday, maybe, sitting on a hill eating hiking food
out of ziplock bags and spilling water from the corners of your
mouth: too eager to drink. At the top of the mountain,
a wand's wave away, all of the rest of your life sits waiting

for you to live it. What's keeping you? Is it me with photos
dangling from my fingers? The other detectives, the ones
you meet at parties? Don't you know the sound you make
is unrecordable, can never be captured, never be used

in a court of law? So keep making it. Tie your shoes on tight.
They need to protect your ankles on the way up. The stones
have been in the sun all day and are aching with warmth. Let
them give it up to you. Somebody or something has to.
posted by Adam at 12:02 AM [edit]

Diary of a day, on the border

I am waiting at the Austin airport for my flight to Houston, then McAllen, when the news of a plane crash in Queens, New York, comes on the overhead t.v. screens. I try to catch what they're saying but the report is drowned out by the periodic announcement over the loudspeakers: "For your security, please keep your bags with you at all times. Unattended bags will be removed by security personnel. Due to increased security, jokes or comments about terrorism will be handled seriously. Please remember that you can be arrested for inappropriate remarks." I board the plane.

I arrive at the office, and talk with Martha Beltran, who speaks no English and has just started working with Community Resource Group to promote a community loan fund for home improvement. She is wearing a red t-shirt with white and blue that says, in English, "United We Stand for a Drug-Free Land." These are the immigrants we are no longer allowing into our country.

Driving a blue pick-up truck built in the 80s down an unpaved road past the taco stands, I suddenly realize that I am farther from Yale than I have ever been, maybe ever will be.

At the gym I fantasize about returning later in the night to destroy the AC/DC Live in Concert CD they always play. When that disc ends, they put on another heavy metal album. This one features voice-overs from a war movie or something, backed up by a grinding guitar. "Your rifle is your best friend," the seargant tells his troops. "I don't discriminate. I don't care if you're a nigger, dyke, wop, or Greek." The heavy metal singer comes on and whines something about "To be a man... alone... challenged as a man." Young football players from Rio Grande City High School are here working out, all with close-cropped hair.

I guess that the two anglo kids talking next to the bench-press are from Teach for America. I'm right. One of them, Jenny, tells me, "Pretty much any other white person you see in here is bound to be from Teach for America." That still doesn't explain the one asian guy I see on the stairmaster every time I come here.

At the Wal-Mart, shopping for groceries, I bump into Richard, the guy who lives at the hotel where I used to stay when I came down here before Community Resource Group rented an apartment in the colonias. Richard has a public health background and is working in some kind of outreach clinic. He says he is tired of having his phone calls not returned, tired of how slow everything moves down here. He says he has more or less given up on any public health projects. I tell him to get in touch with Blanca, the ombudsman for the Secretary of State's Office of Border Affairs, because she gets things done. He says he'd rather not--when in Rome, etc., so if people don't want to call him back for a month he'll just stop leaving messages.

The woman at the check-out counter looks at my spinach for a while. I think she's checking for a price tag. Finally she says, "Spinach?" "Yup," I say, "Spinach." "What's it taste like?" she asks me, "I've never tasted any."

I am sitting on the porch of the apartment, above another unpaved road, eating the afformentioned spinach--steamed--in a bowl with beans and rice. I have no phone. The chair rocks back and forth. There are so many stars, so few cars. I'm so glad to be here.

posted by Adam at 5:21 PM [edit]

It came out of nowhere, and should probably be put back there as soon as possible

Hooray hooray for rock stars
See them falling off the caboose
And trading their second innocence
For little kid shoes come loose
Hooray for all the rock stars
Running through my yard at night
I open up the window
And they disappear from sight
All the future rock stars
In their little kid shoes too tight
posted by Adam at 11:00 PM [edit]