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Missed Connections
mood: jazzy
Sometimes it hits you,
sometimes it doesn’t.
The backlash of sound
from an oncoming train
harsh winds
blowing the wrong direction.
Was that a smile
in her eyes? as we passed
on the train
amid hustle and bustle and heat
was that love?
then she’s gone
off on errands, see her grocery bags?
she must cook
splendid meals and enjoy
them with fine wine.
Does she peruse
her bookshelf at night,
picking the perfect novel
to read before bed? does she write?
or make art? DOES SHE TWEET?
Maybe she has a website
where she collects
pieces of verse
written on bathroom walls
and rates them, maybe not
maybe she does things
that my little mind
cannot comprehend
but that make the world
a better place.
oh shit, she’s getting off the train
should I say something? speak up?
tell her why I’ve been staring at her
for the past five minutes
as if convinced
she’d disappear if I blink?
Train doors close,
but she turns one last time
and stares me in the eyes
then she winks!
shit fuck goddamnit
I should post
on Missed Connections.
Maybe she’ll see?
Furnace
City streets, sun beats
down on the wintering mind
stuck in silent hibernation,
vision creeps into conscious thought
as I open my eyes
on the scene, bleak white
dream of oasis in concrete drives.
Shelter is nowhere to be found.
Skies bright with midday sounds creep
by like the tick of the clock
as the moon sleeps
past the horizon.
Nothing but a sigh
hotter breath than outside
metabolism, sweat glands burn
in the furnace
my corporeal being.
Main St.
Main Street.
Hardware stores and old hotels
crumbling through recessed entryways,
leading to dark tables of varnished
wood and crusted cigarettes.
Lazy day in a lazy summer. Cars drive
slower here, people think slower,
ideas spread with the speed of a cat
waking up from an afternoon nap, or
the ooze of molasses-like sap
from maple trees.
Gotta get away.
“Gotta get away!” I say
to the passers-by
on the corner, foretelling
the end of days.
Nothing left, nothing
here but old men and women
stretched thin on the racks
of their ancient age.
Fled the city, too fast paced
for their dying eyes
here to stay
here to die
on Main St.
Conversations in Bed 2, the slam remix
Upstate NY is a wonderful place.
The chilled mornings,
smelling of northeastern air and dying leaves,
filled with people who make the world great.
The married couple, hosting orgies in their small apartment.
Philosophers, braving Rochester blizzards for a last cigarette.
Students with minds so young and ripe, grasping
and twisting into People, and Creeds, and lifestyles.
But there are others.
Dimwitted masses, striving to grab
a chunk of the American Dream.
Itinerants, souls with no home, seeking the unattainable
in guitar chords and nighttime wanderings.
Gutter men, down on their luck
their entire lives.
“Families are always rising and falling in America, huh?”
“Suppose so”
“Remember the conversations we had? We explored the entirety of human learning in an afternoon, then forged ahead with our own addled plans. We Lived. We Fought. We Died. All in the space of a cigarette’s breath.”
I turned to the girl,
who’s name I’d never asked,
and said:
“I love you.”
“Love is meaningless in a loveless world.”
She turned over and quickly went to sleep.
Reentry to Civilization
Rythmes flow to the tune of a bass guitar
stars fall, planets rise
cycles begin again.
“It’s all circles and spirals” the acid eaters say.
Mindless platitudes of psychonautical experiences
a journey deep into the human soul.
Bitter winds and bright white snows
float south on the tides, great Siberian wastes
makes way to scrubgrass, highways, and traintracks.
Coming down from exile, fluorescent city lights
mark reentry into civilization,
a Great City, rising above the murky depths
of rivers, past moors and stablehouses,
trams, subway cars (dens of the Low People)
and music played off-key in low-rent apartments.
A new home with old sensibilities:
This place of commerce and opportunity.
My car is Ellis Island, as I disembark
my name is mangled into the chorus of the masses,
anonymous,
and full of hope.
