All I ever wanted was to write poetry, to teach people how to use literature, how to enhance their individual and collective humanity with words. I was well on my way to being that poet when two planes took out the Twin Towers. Those buildings had been there my entire life—in the background, on the horizon. And suddenly, in a day, they were gone. I still can’t put the sensation of that into words. That violent absence. That drifting plume of smoke in the background, on the horizon. I just remember calling my best friend on that Tuesday. I remember I called him from the pay phone outside of my 9-5 gig. I remember telling him that the United States would be unrecognizable—verging on a police state—in just about a decade. And I remember all he kept saying, over and over, as I ranted about historical precedence, about corporations, about the military industrial complex, I remember all he kept saying, my equally startled best friend, was this:
“Dude, I know. I know. I know you’re probably right! But, fuck! I hope you’re wrong.”
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