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On the Economy

April 27th, 2008 by admin

On the Economy

I cracked a little today when we packed up our house. I took the deep green shutters with the crescent moons off the front windows because they’re ours and the bank can’t have them. People tell me lonely footprints means God’s carrying you but why he’d take us through this neighborhood I can’t understand.

At night, I do inventory in the lumber aisle and count my lives gone by. When I close my eyes, the smell reminds me of my Uncle’s industry and the porch swing he devised. These are truly stolen moments, for recently they’ve taken to calling thoughts “cigarette breaks.”

The best three hours and fifteen minutes of my day end to the sound of fake nature on the radio. I hold my wife till she’s forced not to shower, her skin in large measure her dowry. Our naked communion speaks sleepy sonatas. Our naked love-aching must do.

By day, I paint. I paint white walls whiter, tan walls tanner and gray walls the eyes of my sighs. Most people think there ain’t no trick to what I do. Most people ain’t never watched paint dry with thoughts of an unsound mind.

My brother lives in the deceased recesses of the American motive, trading pints of blood on margin. The S&P is his horoscope and the FED his baiting dealer. I’d send him a post card if I thought it’d impress him, but the Dow broke its promise and he’s probably dead.

On the bus, I wish dreams from air. I wish there were a land where everyone would have homes. The whole world one perfect, uninterrupted neighborhood, every street a lane, every tree old growth and regal, every neighbor your friend and solemn ally. I wish I could go to banks where I’ve had a savings account since I was five, where I could open an account for my son, where I could save for his education, where you might catch a gust of reflection at your banker’s evening wake.

A bank where I could walk in and pay my mortgage payment every month with pride. A bank that would understand late payments, make honor shake collaterals and know me by my virtues. A bank who shows me in their eyes (that) they differentiate between “being delinquent” and a delinquent. A house filled universe free of shame and pain.

My family goes to church on Sundays. My brother turns out alive and tithes with the grace of one upwardly mobile. My mother sings to a smokers beat and our father looks on from heaven. My wife’s scuffed flats keeps the service somber.

Our beloved shutters lean in our bedroom: defeated, depleted, unspoken. My wife dreams of little children and I note the bankbook’s progress. I write in its margin the last abstract act of my life:

“Freedom is only truly free when rife with possibility.”

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