TWO GUYS & ONCE WAS

A TUESDAY AFTERNOON WITH RAY
May 31, 2005
As much as we think we’re different from others, no matter what their station and situation, we’re basically the same. Different clothes, a different car, a different job and house; take those away and look in the mirror. We are all players on the stage of the human condition where we're beautiful and ugly and laugh and cry on different days.
MY TOWN

peter falk said it
in the "cheap detective,"
a movie,
"i want it like it was."
i do too, but it isn't
going to be like it was,
even though i think
i'm like i was,
i'm not.

this was a small town,
not much happening,
tree lined streets
and a downtown
with the same stores
for the last fifty years.
why did it have to change?
i want it like it was.

greed smothers a town
in plastic irrelevancy
suffocating beauty.
except for the older folks
whose faces wear a lost look,
i don't recognize the place.
people like excitement,
i like charm and security.
i want it like it was,

but most people around today
can't imagine how it was
and don’t know what the hell
I'm talking about.
besides, they don’t know who the hell
peter falk is so they look at me
as some kind of a relic
and wish the hell I'd shut up already.
© 2005 Ray Foreman

RAY,

I COULD PROBABLY PREFACE EVERY PIECE I'VE WRITTEN IN THE LAST 30 YEARS WITH YOUR POEM, "MY TOWN."

EVERY ESSAY AND BOOK I'VE DONE SO FAR, AND IN PROGRESS,
ABOUT THE LOSS OF THE RURAL IN THIS QUIET AND SIMPLE SETTING
WHICH I LEFT CHICAGO FOR IN 1969,
AND WHICH THE WAVES OF NEW AND WEALTHY INVADERS
SEEM DETERMINED TURN IT INTO
THE SAME SUBURBAN SHIT THEY LEFT BEHIND.

IT'S THE GREAT ZEN KOAN OF OUR TIME: "EVERYTHING OLD IS NEW" OR
"NEW IS NECESSARY UNNECESSARILY."

ED ABBEY PUT IN THIS WAY: "WHY CAN'T PEOPLE JUST LEAVE THINGS ALONE?"

I WAS IN MY OLD CHICAGO NEIGHBORHOOD A FEW MONTHS AGO.
THE OLD EUROPEAN LANGUAGE IS GONE FROM THE STREETS.
YOU HAVE TO PEER THROUGH THE LATINO LAYERS TO SEE WHAT IT ONCE WAS.
IT'S THEIR PLACE TO DEFINE NOW

DOWNTOWN CHICAGO, AS BEAUTIFUL AS IT ONCE WAS AND STILL IS--
BUT NO LONGER 'OUR KIND OF TOWN.'

TO SPEAK ONLY AND FOREVER OF WHAT ONCE WAS IS FULL MEMBERSHIP IN THE OLD FARTS CLUB.
I DON'T KNOW WHAT THE ANSWER IS.
EXCEPT THE PAST IS MEANT TO BE LOST.

AND THE WORK OF THE WRITER IS TO REMEMBER
WITH HONESTY AND LOVE.

I HAVE A GLASS JAR OF BOYHOOD MARBLES ON THE WINDOW SILL OF MY COOP,
AND WHEN THE SUN CATCHES THEM IN A CERTAIN LIGHT,
I THINK OF DIGGING A HOLE IN THE NEIGHBORHOOD EARTH WITH THE HEEL OF MY SHOE.

A GOOD SIDEWALK , CRACKED, SOLID, SPARKLING IN CERTAIN SUMMER LIGHT
RECALLS FOR ME THE LAGGING OF PENNIES.

WHAT LANGUAGE AM I SPEAKING?

I WAS THINKING OF LOST LANGUAGE THE OTHER MORNING
AS I STOOD IN THE PEACE OF A BEAUTIFUL SPRING DAY
AND PULLED OUT A POCKET KNIFE TO CLEAN MY FINGERNAILS.
THE OPEN KNIFE FELL OUT OF MY HAND
AND THE POINTED BLADE
STUCK PERFECTLY STRAIGHT,
WAVERING SLIGHTLY IN THE DEWEY GRASS.
“MUMBLEY-PEG.”

--norb