Note: This poem is featured on the Born Beneath an Angry Star chapbook, available now.

Through 2001st season of the wolf, I wrap myself in warm nostalgia.
Sitting silent, resting against wall of wife's inattenton,
I long for glittering days of 1999.

Remember shiny waves of venture capital as far as the lies could flee,
leaving limitations of old money,
dreaming in HTML code and pixellated banner ads.
A mouse in one hand and stock tickers in the other,
there were options for every digital dreamer,
pajama parties in the Lincoln bedroom,
splendor of horizons moving farther and farther away ...

Now, we're not living in Stanley Kubrick's vision of the future,
but staring into reflections of Reagan era,
desperately seeking strife under every grain of sand and foreign border.
Laid off and laid back, we freelance days away
debt finance tomorrow, wondering how wide this road,
how many good intentions paved it,
and why are we in this handbasket?

I remember the look in love's eyes,
determined attention she lavished on me,
simmering nights in jungle apartment,
sticky passion like syrup on buckwheat waffles.
Diving headlong into committment,
we never looked back at yesterday's cliffs.
We just slow grooved to simple, chakra rhythms
hair falling out of braids to tiptoe across my chest
and sound of shower beads dancing through sunbeams,
falling into her kiss.

It's harder to reach her across space of mortgaged home,
intensity that once focused on me digging up yard to plant flowers,
Now, mornings once spent curling up at my side
find her watering lawn in pre-noon haze.
Width of house chasms between us,
and I feel like we're living such different lives,
roommates brushing lips on farewell,
desires buried in literary ambitions and domestic routine.

Pulling wistful sentimentality around me,
I lean back against sleeping bride,
whisk hairs from her brow
and yearn for Prince's party prediction.
Future's not as shiny and promising as science fiction led me to believe,
but it's certainly as cold.
I know nostalgia is procrastination wrapped in cinnamon,
but with every step forward,
my uncle's glory days grousing makes more sense,
and looking forward to a new century
seems so much better than looking back.