An Observed Woman on the 2 Train

She wishes she was them:

big where it mattered

small where it counts.

But she is not them,

she cannot be.

It makes her so sad

it hurts me.

Lean your head.

Weep.

Repine.

Sleep.

Divine.

Traveling

You are unaccountable:

            the way your eyebrow raises in that way that says, “You’re talking out your ass aren’t you?”,

            the way your mystical mouth manages to enunciate everything I need to hear,

            and the way I can’t manage, no matter how hard I try, to get that thing you said about dreams

 

out of my head.

 

To love is indeed a strange verb.

What is it, exactly, that you are doing?

It is a verb—

that bit is undeniable—

but what kind?

 

The mountain air broke

through St. Christopher’s

lungs,

trying to illustrate to him

precisely how dangerous

things are,

and he breathes it in and

breaks his lungs, and he

says,

 

“I am sorry wind, please

see that I love you dearly

now,

and see that I see what

you are desperately trying

to do,

but know I must travel on

toward the unknowable.

 

You act out of love,

and for that I love you

but

we all know the things

we do in the name of

love

can certainly contain

the most selfish motive.

 

You love me because I

love you, and everything

you are,

but you do not love

me for me,

you love me for what

it is I can

do.

 

How can you love me

in myself,

when I don’t know myself

from me?

 

So I take my lime green accessories,

and I water down my waterproof boots,

and my one-person tent has been prepared,

and the infinite beckons me on, broken lungs

and all.

 

You big-breasted whore of Babylon, Be Gone!

I can take no more curvaceous connivery.

And yet,

and yet,

I want you all so bad.

No No No No No

Go Go Go Go Go

Do you reckon I miss you?

Well, know goddamn well I do.

I am cursed to love.

It’s all I know to do.

 

But take your strappy sandals,

and take your fantastic words,

and take your knowing smile

away from the unworthy.

 

One cannot worship at the altar and physically communicate.

It, unfortunately, doesn’t work that way, and I know you are

not real.

It can’t be.

It’s oh so good

and I want to touch,

but I walk.  Walk on.”

 

He takes up his

walking staff,

fills his water

canteen once,

 

takes a sip from

the stream,

and leaves—a shell of

a man.

 

 

And now I don't know

what will happen.

It's quite a catch-22, if

you think about it.

You care enough for me

to want to know

what I have planned in 

my unseen future,

But simultaneously, simple

facts are difficult 

and what I have planned

will probably have

adverse affects on some

if any, of the kind

thoughts you may from

time to time think.

I think we are all pretty

clear with whose

fault the ending of "us"

actually was--not

a doubt at all about that

particular mystery--

and I think I'm something

of a pain magnet.

I bring it to me, everyone around me, 

and I don't really have poles either:

wreckless shit just piling up at the

patchwork fence that surrounds me--

a heinous rubble testament that

sometimes make me wish I didn't

have quite so much land, because it

can be fairly difficult to maintain

appearances--

And now I don't know 

what will happen.

I did love you once.

I know we made it there.

I believe you think so too, and

for every good reason; we

did make it to love.

Perhaps I'm a sentimental sophomore,

but I do think that is something that

ought to be honored and upheld.  It's

impossible to know what may have

been.

But I am gone as the wind.

I checked out already, I think,

and we are just waiting for

the final shoe to drop.  I have

been living in Exhaustedville

for way too long, now it's naptime.

I could say I'm sorry forever.

Things You Get Used To

You can never get used

to the slap of the handicapped

accessible subway seat:

every single instance of

upward motion equals the

SLAP! 

of plastic on plastic hard love.

And you may get used to 

so many things in the city: 

being asked for a cigarette

on any errand you might be 

running, with some guys

hurt look following your

denial,

the rhythmic clanging of 

Walter's change cup at the corner

of Flatbush and Nostrand,

and the possibility that on

any god-given day of the unholy

week, you might find that

 

you, 

yes you,

have been vomited on by some unwitting fellow passenger who has just managed to get a little bit of motion sickness and, although they tried so hard to make it to the door between cars in order to spare everybody the pain of knowing that they were in a vomit care, it is, unfortunately rush hour and this is an express train between express stops so you know it's like shoving people out of the way, and he just doesn't manage to make it there.

But you get used to these things.

And you can even get used to the 

idea that you have to gently let

the set up so it doesn't slap, but

if you forget and that super-loud

SLAP!

happens in real-time.  

Fuggedaboudit.

You're a little scared.

The Sight of You

Morning-heavy cobwebs

break against my face

and mayflies trapped in

June, held fast by silken

means, are wondering

why they are not me.

 

And nature teaches us to look up

and see the sprawling majesty

surrounding our overwhelmed eyes,

while cities teach us to look down

and watch that we walk carefully

without catching another’s glance.

 

Go then in to nature children and

see the majesty of god—

 

you’ll see it in the city, too

but differently, you see:

 

it’s the space between

 

the space between the

 

difference between free

and oppressive majesty.

 

I smelled you

briefly

on the street

today.