It's raining and there are vegetables to be had. Which means heading out to Eastern Market. Read Greg Purcell's latest poems in Fence. He's the guy that hosts the St. Mark's Reading in New York. He spends alot of time in these poems thinking about the comparison of Chicago to New York, having lived in both places.
I spend alot of time thinking about the comparison of Detroit to Chicago, to New York, to Phoenix, to Seattle. The differences are vast. We live in a hub. Our little junk shop town. It sits at the back of the machine shop hanging on a tool board swinging in the metal breeze when the garage door opens.
It knows no other town but itself. Ratchet town. Monkey wrench with a glob of grease town. The kids here go down south for their summers. Down south is just not that different than here. We're a down south up north in the midwest town. Landlocked vacant lots. No rolling tumbleweed. No coast.
They need to get out this town. We need to get out of this town. Maybe not forever. But for awhile. It's hard to live here. And know that I just meant to type: It's hard to leave here. Most livable city. Comfortable glass in the alley. Cozy drunkards. Friendly parking lot attendants and charming allergists. My favorite meter maid lives here. My childhood drug dealer.
And what a hypocrit I am. I'm talking about we need to get out of and I'm afraid to apply to grad school 'cause I don't want to leave Detroit. It's hard to leave Detroit.
Here's an older poem by Greg Purcell. The new poems in Fence are more language intensive, and wilder. But I like this poem alot. It's closer to my current headspace: