I’ve gotten my green card. A plastic ID card with my photo, my birthday, my country of birth, printed next to the image of Lady Liberty. At the top of the card, it reads ” United States of America Permanent Resident”. I can’t comprehend. The person who wanted this piece of plastic is a distant memory. I can’t locate her in my flesh.
I understand the emotions I should feel. Joy. Relief. Gratitude. Some people waited seventeen years for their chance to be permanent. I knew little about the nature of change.
I am exhausted. Everything changed. The center did not hold. I want to say it is Covid. I want to say it is time and karma. I look at the ID photo – a quiet smile on my face, my hair short, like how I was at eighteen.
I look around at my life – a messy storyline waiting for the next stroke. The ink is ready. The writer is frozen. Where should I begin? What should I write?
Sure. Anything. Everything.
What’s a poet and a philosopher to do now? AI and capitalism has everyone covered. Soon, I would be able to have a conversation with the dead pianist Glenn Gould. Should I be glad? I don’t know.
My poet heart, my philosopher mind, neither know how to give up the fight. I am drunk and sober, unable to numb and fool myself. I don’t know why I am not having as much fun as I can.
According to science, I feel what I expect to feel. I expect joy and peace. Is that foolish and wise? Head heavy. Heart heavy. How do I help this living breathing being tattooed with my name?
Permanent resident. I find the term comical and ironic. Soon. I will be thirsty and hungry. Soon. I will need a shower and a hug. Soon. I will be gone. Why wait?
Do you understand what I am trying to say?
