Origins Pt. 4

According to Jen Cooley I died nine years ago
there was no chance I'd make it far enough
to reflect on my twenties
from the grassy side of the grave.
I stole this idea
from a better poet at 28,
but here goes anyway...
it seems like a lot of what I remember
comes from October
30 times I've lived its 31 days
lucky to have been in a place with a climate
suitable for pumpkin carving first nights of love.
Until I had a car
everything of relevance fell on weekends or summer vacation
a Buick changed all that
exposing me to the point where the pavement ended and rurality took hold.
School...
I recall being humiliated by my math teacher
in 2nd grade for picking my nose while
she taught us to tell time on analog clocks
"You're making me so sick I'm going to go home and you can teach this class", she snapped,
while we sat Indian style
and I slyly rubbed my snotty finger against the industrial grade carpeting.
Mr. Mcdonald, 9th grade history teacher
the day before Thanksgiving brought in and played us his Alice's Restaurant LP
this being the first of several steps in the undoing of my upbringing.
I look back now on all who filed through
and kept walking
who never saw fit to google their way back.
I knew the best minds of suburban stagnation
always alert to an opportunity to expand a mind
or look cool trying.
There are hours when I still need all night eggs and tobacco,
but I'm not sure I could stay awake.
The other night in Chicago
I found myself in a club that stunk of sweat and smoke
like my 930 F Street past,
and I said to my friend "It's been a long time since I've been some place cool."
my concert attendings these days
consisting of sit down shows
by guys older than my dad
singing lost protests and heart songs into the rush of digital wind.
I told my wife I wanted to move to Chicago
as we drove down Armitage eyeing the alleys and cafes
She replied "Would you even go to those places? you're such a homebody."
I told her I'd go out to sit somewhere being antisocial
reading a paper, drinking overpriced beverages.
But, I would go out if there were places to go
but here there's nothing.
Even my old gloomed gravel roads are gone
asphalted and lined with assholes and aluminum mansions.
There's fake old time local paraphenalia
hanging on Ruby Tuesday walls.
Somewhere there's a factory
where nostalgia suitable for mounting is made en masse
then sent rush delivery
to the halls of frozen ribs and lukewarm fries,
and it reminds me of the wasted day when Adam and I were turned down at every factory we tried to tour.