Of Art and Passengers (A Subway Tale)

A kaleidoscope of ethnicity
compressed

Flavors permeate the
nostrils through transmutational
remnants still wafting about the air

Diagonal, vertical,
slits form breaks
then
stops and
when ready
starts again
only. for these. pauses
to refresh newly formed

Every pang once felt
forgets its cause,
each pain you feel
salts away before the
peppered points of tear

after a gritty stairs descent
a newfound attachment
to ever-altering straits
of atmosphere appears,

is discovered, forgotten
and rediscovered once more

the comfort of warming
sensations resonate to
the gullet of an individual
existence

alone, this portrait of
warmth, is a cycle held
dear, for between both
hands, and through every
biting glance, a variance
of spice and pleasure
emanates within

passageways recall
those sacred memories
of long lost times and
even longer days,

where you're only care
was being clothed and dry,
swaddled full upon the
primitive satisfactions that
enrich each and every morsel
of woman and man

art forms in flashes, scrawled
upon supporting beams and
along the seams of darkened
apportioned tracts of tunneled
walls, where the only vision
beyond the flickering bulb that
sways to the trains fleeting feet

is that of the composer and the
architect, as withered fingers
paint away by these unnamed
scribes of the underground

and in these too fast to recall
moments of rapture,
both the observers, poised from
their catbird seat, to the artist,
swimming faster
than retinae can scan,
both arrive at such a place
where a new artistic movement
is revealed within

at each the platforms,
the faces alter form
and air expands, contracts,
from thick to thin,
from thin to thick

In the winter months
you may not care about
the close comforts of
strangers, processing and
surveying your every inch,
feeling out your very story,
as surmised from the touching
warmth of an impossibly captured
palette of voluminous shapes and
shades of skin

In the summer the space
is prayed upon, for it's
eagerness to cool, but

occasionally, perhaps we don't
mind as much,

for coverings
are vaguer than they are
other points of the year,
and the depths
below the concrete jungle
are cool in their subterranean
melody

and then the change falls
clink-clink-clink

the cards are punched
reminders of the day of
month, sometimes year

but the transaction is far from done,
the conductor's voice replays, repeating
under the covers entering the dreams
you carry within

I never cared much for subways or
people for that matter.  I can't
say much has changed, but change
has occurred, this much I cannot deny

for once poetry caught me in it's net,
every experience and vision
seemed to come alive, each breathing
a song that only I can fully hear

and I never even discussed the conversations,
the ones that only I could hear,
the ones  jumbled together, the
passages of sound and speech,
I patch to form
the ever-changing conduction
of symphonic sound

I never speak of those dear words,
for those transactions, are as sacred as
the nap-sacks and gold studded black
suitcases, white-knuckle clutched close
to traveling hand

Head on over to D'Verse tonight and check out their weekly Poetics feature, where Claudia has offered up this Subway inspired prompt. Come read what others have linked up and while you're there, as always, link your subway poem to share.

Hellbred for Halloween

Midnight vanity

Children,

Monsters,

Scourge

Pop-star repercussion

In this,

That latter place

The republication of

Acuteness

Thoughts converge

Convulsing apathetical

By riddles cawed in masks of straw

Violence in the vigilant

A village of weight

Upon

The Vigilante

Stuck sorting through each mask

Stars dim their twilight

Feigned superstitions

Unearthed inside

All days to follow

Pay the fare

For scorpions tears

Black-winged scales

Dragon's teeth,

Dissect & Stare

Blend, stir, chill, and serve

Sanguine seeker

Ashen, to the parched

Landscape—

         Where taste is beholden

         By thirst—“young kids, what they know”

Stirring…

“Every time some damned whack job writer talks about sexy vampires or cool demons, we get a cult of reenactments”

Sauntering throughout each chalk-lined imprint, the—

I guess, now, newly appointed, or acting, in the very least—

Sheriff can feel the breathing, singeing, of each hair upon his neck—

“Get back, that’s what the yellow line is for people, just get back, NOW, don’t want no more unnecessary tonight—it’s freakin’ Halloween people, go bob some darned apples or whatever you all do these days”

Vegetarian (of circumstantial foundations) vexed in frustration

For philosophy stands, tonight, in disregard

Hallowed day breeds hollowed eve

Parents clamoring for condemnable treats

Forgetting tricks comprise the second half

Spillage

Senses flare

                  “I MADE A PROMISE”  “A MF’N promise”—

The tension tinges to a flair.  Shift’s been long extended now, “Don, I mean Sheriff, whatever happened didn’t happen here…been over the area twice now, somethin’ obviously happened, but this place is dry”

“SO WHAT YOU WANT ME TO TELL PETE’S WIFE AND KIDS- GO KNOCK ON HIS DOOR AND WAIT FOR HIS MISSES TO ANSWER, PROBABLY WITH THE KIDS BY HER LEGS, DRESSED UP & READY TO GO-HE SAID THEY WAS GOING TO BE THOSE DAMN LITTLE VARMINTS FROM THE GEICO COMMERCIAL- THE OLDEST ONE—(sniffles, wiping tears) he’s got the megaphone…Pete says he’s got the Command down pat…and I don’t have to tell you, miracle that kid’s even made it this long, with what he’s got and all…SO ROW, ROW, ROW…What the F’ Should I tell them, Trick or treat, WHAT THE F', YOU WANTA BE THE ONE”

None of the uniforms say a word.  Heads are hung, eyeing concrete over the extensively jagged pause, severed only when

Don turns back to them, streaming tears abandoning, “ You all go home, be with your families…"


Not knowing if they should listen to the Sheriff or the guilt, the officer's fidget amongst themselves, until

Don reprises the demand, "You all deaf now, just go…THAT”S AN ORDER”

Looking up the sky reveals a raven’s plummet

In-spiral spheres, the drizzling afterglow lost in cosmic drift. 

Pinprick tingles length of spine,

Down the legs and up the blades

Look around and realize: I stand amidst a cavalcade of temptation

The sheriff eyes the women marching the strip.  Are they working? Why the hell would anyone dress like that?  It gets you thinking, doesn’t it?

Alas, I am much too weak

Turning around, reopening the yellow gate, Sheriff Don stares into the side-view mirror, of his friends car, “Pete, damned you, of all people, you should’ve just gone home…" 


Poking about the gravel, looking for anything, anything at all, "Gonna hafta get this towed back to station…”   

That’s when he noticed…

He was showing, 
just a bit, but still,
 a tooth was escaping lip,

“kinda figured, anger does it to me every time…thank God it’s tonight”

"Wait all year for the one night,

The one damned night,

Get to be myself,

And I’ve been so darned good,

Damn, you Pete"


Sheriff Don called in the tow, waited for those scavengers to arrive, "Gonna cost a fortune...oh, yeah they love this... f'n overtime"


After all was silent once again,
He felt it,
That same feeling he first felt 200 years before,
Hunger, pure hunger

"Holiday my ass...

At this point, F' it,

Might as well,

Restart the fast

In the morn, after all 
it is M'F'N Halloween”
 

This Halloween themed piece is also being shared over at Jingle Poetry at the Gooseberry Gardens for their weekly Poetry Picnic.

The Scribe

This is a piece I wrote back in may, a character development piece for a screenplay I'm working on.   D'Verse is having their weekly Poetics prompt, and the topic is trying to get into the head of someone and write as if you are the actor playing that person, or are that person.  Obviously my choice is a fictional character.  And just a warning, the piece is pretty disturbing.

Someone’s always left alive,

To bear witness,

I’ve spent all my life a poet,

And today, for that, my life is spared,

To watch such violence,

As your flesh, now Picasso-like,

Composed from friendly blood,

To keep composure,

To numb,

To silence,

All the aversions,

Your mind will surely throw,

For if you survive and cannot recall

You are no use to him at all,

Hours long he keeps them tied,

Radiators,

Desks,

And stoves suppress,

Your eyes,

Distorted,

Tainted forever more,

Must look away,

When they cry for you to help,

In such, confusion's solved,

They never wonder

What side you're on,

What role you play,

A role they will never understand,
In fact, I can't say that even I am so aware

When all the days have exhausted,

As all the bleach destroys stain,

Pack he does,

With myself in tow,

Locked into an unseen panel,

Of a van he will flee in,
and the darkness there is a refuge, a reprieve

No light to occupy,

No sounds to churn,

Just the noise of rocks,

Or stone-

Kicking tires,

Scraping chrome,

Then the journey shall anew,

A bantering from beyond,

I can almost see the realtor,

Smiling as he takes the hand,

Unknowing,

He would be the first,

To have his limbs severed this day,

Into the bowels I am cast,

Bound and gagged,as

They file through,

Some dirtied, others bruised,

Rarely though are the signs acute,

From sleeping victim to begging thief,

The portrait changes over time,

Branching out as before,

Never a shortage for the well to shore,

Documenting each one of them,

A plethora of character, endless though,

As often it does seem,

Fear has left me….Numb

Desire for releasing, to be the hero...quelled

I've envisioned my closing argument,

Pleading for forgiveness, I'm A VICTIM too,

I remind the jurors of,  to whom my future relies...Alas,
but this is but fanciful imagination

Justice offers, or owes, me nothing

No day in court, no bargaining,

No sentencing, only sentences

Creative, albeit from a monstrous womb,

To pass the time,

Between each chapter,

I play a game, if pursuits of play

are even appropriate...but it binds me from implosion

He always takes a souvenir,

Where it goes I dare not guess,

But with each new face,

I survey their person, for additives to persona

And, it keeps me from asking, "How many more?"

My greatest work, how sad that sounds

Characters so real, because they are

So richly layered and with depths of shading...unprecedented

Fathers, daughters, sisters, mothers,

Lovers, partners, strangers too...

A myriad of outlines; no credence or bias toward,

To which, I must analyze the way he operates into,


I must confess, I've plagiarized
From each and all...as the exact words,
born in that split-moment, just before finality,
Are the kinds of voice, that simply can't be reproduced fictitiously

Is there a difference? Between his mind and my own

Is there a pattern? Am I really that different

Can I hypothesize? Do I owe him a debt of gratitude---

Should I dare attempt define? Or a pox upon?

Each moment of calculation,

What every path represents

A variable, a data set,

For what I can not,

Nor, at this point, care to know-- Yes, I'm that far removed 

Just today, if the separation of day even still exists

Three men,two women Lions & lambs, both ripe for the slaughter

Each day I pray, yes pray... For a plot twist, or just any new development to siphon boredom from routine

When they are here, the innocents--which by his account, none truly ever can be, the smell of fear protrudes their pores....as it should...I'm still a realist...I still know the mind....now more than ever

Only the subtleties of accent, set them apart, hint to distances travelled, from where... It doesn't matter, but it certainly assists an accurate rendering of characterization...ever slur, twitch, tic and dialect, differentiates the countless extras needed...when this becomes film

yet agonizing pieces of morality tend to throb...."WHAT WOULD YOU HAVE ME DO?" I'd shout internally, as my other shoulder begins to tingle, "they're all the same, if not them, then...well, you"

Yes, they’re all the same to me, they're not real, simply props for my artistry, yes, that's it exactly...craftwork...where research is key

The misfortune of others has lustered my personal status, blinded me with egoism, I have a very pleased Id, yet periodically, the cancer grows, that temporary shift in mental subtext, back to a time when mental composure was everything....

Who am I-

that I should be the one to survive?  Back in my prior life, I wouldn't have been able to convince myself the answer, I would've sniveled in distortion, shedding a ballast of tears....But the man I have become, the evolution of self, well...the answer's simple...I have a gift, a gift he needs...a symbiosis... a pairing, he and I....he performs, and I document every detail, significant or trivial...that's why

His motto, his only creed,

Always leave one to breath,

Always leave one alive,

For a very long period now... that scribes been me, illustrating a masterpiece, one he seems pleased with, as am I

So hardened by the facets forced, I may have begun to feel invincible, a linchpin of sorts...an indispensable importance in his scheme

Today though,

All this may have changed,

As it’s come to my attention,

The number of writers,

In this place,

Is now two.. and the voice in my head fears she's better than me...but it can't end this way, I've at least, at minimum, a paragraph left to write...  


Unchained he left me alone with her...Hatchet in plain view, Was he testing me?  Who's he talking to up stairs? Who's there with him?  


Question's of similarity flooding.  Wood feels no different than any other appendage.  Her eyes flooding, mascara drowning her dress...What have I become?  Who am I now?  and with one fell swoop, hatchet compromises bone... Never questioning..."should I try to leave?"

Frayed old man descends the stairs...He heard the screams...this I'm well aware of...Drenched red, from hair to shoe...A smile enveloped his frown, glimmering through the darkened room...

A smile that turned to a disapproving grimace, as he sees her all but whole, except for the writhing hands upon the concrete pool..."Smart...but don't feel so secure....one day, it'll be you or some other her." Sighing as he leaves....and I do as well... never questioning the scent in the air, the deafening scream, the taste of blood that's painted poetry upon my lips...Will I ever be strong enough?  Will I ever live up to expectation?  Perhaps...one day... Perhaps, one day I'll win his love

So it looks as if a sequel's in store

If I survive to pen another tale,

I may never,

Finally,

Be set free again

A Quality Life

Been in this spot for so long, he don’t remember any other way of life.  It was a lot of heartache, lots of good times though.  All in all, Judge says it was a quality life; wouldn’t have done nothing different neither.  I told him to start at the start, and so that’s where we started.  I say we, because the arthritis has stole his joints and mine are still able to use a pen, so it’s mainly me whose voice your hearing, but this is all about judge,  he’s the one with things to tell, I just been long for the ride, that’s all.

He said he would remember sometimes stealing hubcaps off from cars, two neighborhoods away, it was him and a few of the kids from the playground, they’d take them and bring their finds to his uncle’s garage and get a nickel apiece, doesn’t seem like much, but it was back then, those were much leaner times than what we got now.  His father was a decorated officer and it was often joked that he had three sons, Judge, his brother and the law, and that one got the time out of the old man, can’t say ‘bout love, cause I’m sure he loved them all ‘bout the same..  He never was around much growing up, and his ma was always sick, so his ma’s brother took care of them after school and so forth.    Family get-togethers were quite heated, kids were torn as to who they should listen to, believe.  You see the uncle was a thief, a really good one.  The garage was a front, a place where the thieves could go and grab a soda, read the paper in between gigs.  Yeah, holidays were interesting.  Growing up, his brother took a path emulating his uncle, and I don’t really know what happened, but Judge appeared destined for the same.  Then the news came in that Judge’s dad was shot dead on the spot, convenient store, corner of rose and downing, for a dollar fifty in his pocket, just got off a double, must have been tired, and never saw it coming.  Anyhow judge changed after that day, turned away from the crooked pathway, judge’s uncle was fine with that, his life, his choice, but he was always there when judge needed him.

Skip forward a bit, I’ll fill in later, Judge was five years from the academy, and went back to school, and then again became a doctor of criminology and justice, something like that.  Bunch of union boys pushed him to run for being a judge; he brushed it off at first, and then ran thinking there was no way he’d win.  Well remember when I said judges uncle would always be there for him, well he was.

This was a long time ago; hardly recognize that man no more, at least fifty years now.  All the greasy palms, lobbyists, not to mention the family line, and that all came into play over the years, which is worse, whose call is that to decide anyhow, all these things can catch up to a guy.  Well judge has turned his head so many times by now he’s bound to be looking straight back to him by this point.  And judge, he’s a good guy, a really good guy, believe me, I know, been with him every step of the way.  But I don’t know how it all got unraveled, if it even did, but conscience has eaten him up good these past couple, he’s sad he can’t remember which is what, you know.  He remembers fine, that’s not it at all, it’s what point of view he’s remembering, that’s his concern, been so many sides and stories and angles played over the decades, old judge now demands photographs as proof now, even over his own memories and recollections of things, figures photos more reliable anyway.  Judge gone past this morning, so out of respect, not so sure this going to get out there, not sure what judge would want me to do.  I can fill in the blanks, but some things just best unremembered if you can, if not someone else can accuse a dead man of something, people look at accusations like that a bit differently, with a bit of skepticism.  Yeah, guess that’s ‘bout right, if it’s going to happen, that’ll be how it will be.