Strutted out of the building with a song in my head and a fresh new shirt, wrinkles steamed out, new wrinkles setting in, shiny new shoes and your favorite hat and a watch that does not work and that is my silent protest to the world and mail in my hand - a movie and the rent - and the white man walking sign blinked to the red hand flashing and I dashed across, coffee coursing, and I heard the grind of the mailbox door and ugh forgot to drop the mail but my new shirt has four pockets and the mail folded nicely into one and there is not turning back now and I spring down the train steps and swipe my card so perfectly that the turnstile is in awe and I stand at my spot, you know the spot, and I start typing all of this, present tense for the past and the now, and the train is one station away, always, by definition, and I hope to get the same seat yet again, you know the one, and I got it and the train is cool and lovely, makes me feel so fresh and so cleanclean, and my new coffee is quit good, apparently, and I do not like the name because I do not get the "nuts" aspect nor does anyone say "chock full o' " any more (did they ever?) and it was cheaper than the Italian kind I bought last time and it is a darker roast named after this city and it even says on the can that, like this city, it is intense and dark and it is and I like it and the woman across from me is wearing gladiator sandals and that is a trend that I wish would go away. Like the skull and crossbones. Like racism. Like Williamsburg people. Movies inflict much of this on us. 300. Pirates/Depp. The gladiator lady flips big glasses down over her eyes. They are as big as coffee can lids and as dark as the brew. Tortoise shell fakery. Even though I got on the train in my usual spot in anticipation of switching at 14th I think I will ride to W4 and walk through the parks to work and drop my mail off at the post office and buy a croissant somewhere. A woman next to the gladiator is reading a tiny book that is very thick and she mouths the words fast and I guess that it is the Torah but maybe it is the Quran and probably not the bible. A guy next to her looks like Seal without the skin disease and Heidi Klum. Does not everyone wish they could sing? I am loving my guayabera. It is white. A dangerous move for me but I should someday learn how to care for clothing and shoes. A woman who looks like Molly Shannon talks to an old guy with a bucket hat. Supastar! I ordered a couple more guayaberas last night online. I might become one of the guys who wears the same thing every day but not quite the same. Repetition and difference! They make formal guayaberas, as well. A rainbow closet full of them. Linen pants? Why not! No, never. I can only tolerate so much linen. Wrinkle factor, you see. To much labor and to little reward. It is nice occasionally but not on the daily. And not in this city. Maybe Miami. "If you see any suspicious activity on the platform or the train do not keep it o yourself. Your bags are subject to random search by police." Bags are not the only place you can hide a bomb. They fit nicely into the adult diapers of 95-year-old cancer patients. I went to bed early but could not fall asleep even though I was tired. Notes kept popping into my head and I flicked on the phone and shined (shoned? shone?) the light in my eyes and wrote them down. I will sacrifice sleep for that. I had terrible dreams and, worse, I remember them. Very political: Texas and George W. Also violent: fist-fight wrestling brawl with friend. These dreams made me feel even more unrested. I wish I had forgotten them. My friend sent me an email from LA. He saw Barry Bonds in a CVS and I told him that I did not realize that CVS sold human growth hormone. That actually happened. That was not part of the dream. But maybe that is why he was in my dream. Obvious. A guy is wearing a T-shirt with a Simon Says game. Do you remember that game? It was a round electronic thing with four colored panels and the game would play a sequence and light up the panels and make noise and you had to duplicate the sequence. If you messed up it made and awful sound and flashed chaotically. If you got it right it made victorious noise and flashed triumphantly. You could play with friends or by yourself. Aw. Lonely only children. I am writing this on a file on my phone called "Scribble" and it is lagging because this file must be getting humongous. I need to transfer. Done. "Scribble Two" and { More Drunk Pushups }. The T-shirt dude got off but he should not have because Simon did not say so. The saddest lonely only kid toy I ever saw was this football that was cut in half. It was designed to throw against a wall and it would come back to you if you threw a good spiral. Makes me want to cry. Fatherless, friendless boys. Even looking at the sawed off ball is sad. Half. A missing part. Unwhole. "Please do not block the doorways. Let them off and on. Do not block the doors." Nobody listens to that. Did I tell you about flying into the city? Maybe not because we did other things. I definitely did not write to you about it. We soared in at sunset and there we so many clouds and it was so beautiful. Saw the sunset from above and below the clouds and the plane descended under them into a red glow and the sun reflected on the water and buildings and hid behind clouds and peeked back out and it is my stop and I step off the train and an old lady with huge billowy sunset-red pants steps on, no lie, and more gladiator sandals and is not there always a person who runs for the train and the doors close in her face and she looks up and sighs? Farmers market people setting up. Fountain flowing. Pigeons soaring in to peck at crumbs and people chatter random sound bytes of the importance of the events in their early-morning lives. My usual street-cart block charges a quarter less for croissants. A nanny with a melted face. I see her here often. Flowers, a rainbow of scents. The white man walking sign blinks to red hand flashing and I dash and I wonder why I am dashing again. Men wash a wet, lathered fire truck. Woman with a yoga mat. Bird chirping over engines. Dog walk. Sniffing. Pissing but not lifting leg nor squatting and I check for a doggie dong and see one and I have never seen a mandog piss like this and and I dash across another street and almost cut to the other side and I remember my mail and stop and I almost drop my phone and croissant into the mailbox with the movie and the rent. This croissant is not worth an extra quarter.

1 for the 369 Crew:

ty bluesmith said...

ty votes for this one.