this motherfucker found him-
self on a Rockaway-bound A.
Having never been there before
he did not know what to expect;
however, he was full of piss and
vinegar, so he set off into the un-
known.
He got a little bit lost, at first,
and was accosted by a group
who pretty clearly out to
have nothing to say to him.
Evading the accostations by
virtue of ignore-ance, he found
what he had been looking for
Rockaway Community Park...
and it was empty. Nobody and
nothing around. Good and bad
because it was a vacant day
on a beautiful day in the sun.
But our intrepid traveler was
not to be detoured, and thus
it was that he made a find:
a wooden footbridge to a pier.
Only one meal per family can
be pulled from Jamaica Bay
during any given week, through
order of the state of New York.
You do not walk on sand there.
You do not walk on dirt there.
You walk on bits of broken glass
strewn about everywhere there.
He sat and played his guitar, he
ate a ham and cheese sandwich,
and he smoked a depressing
cigarette, tossing it into the shit.
It hurt his heart, this scene. It
hurt him something fierce: the
only thing, god-given thing, in
the area, and all we can do is
destroy it.
Painful.
Hurtful.
Causing more wanderlust than ever.
No humans around.
He collected his things, sunburned
now, and made for the other
side of the island.
The beach was nice.
The water was cool.
The wind carried the
chords from his guitar
as an offering to the
gods.
A smoke.
A walk on giant boulders.
A walk along the boardwalk,
and one helluva long train
ride home.
But he was not done wandering,
our Ulysses of Brooklyn and
Queens, and he found himself
in a part of Brooklyn he'd never
seen.
New York is all backwards,
he thought to himself, with
the population running away
from the ocean, as opposed
to toward it.
A secret science meeting later,
and that makes for one hell
of a day. A long, tiring, sun-
baked day of eye-openings.
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