Metro Cleaning

When they cleaned the subways
It sounds like the platforms peeing
After a long night in a cramped position
The first thing it wants to do is take a long stretch
And leak forever.
The way they scrape the cement with long brushes sounds like the underground scratchin its head
Searching for a reason to stay out of bed
Leaking scratching but not acting on notion of making a train shoot out of its mouth
The steel tounge responsible for slitherin mass amounts of thoughts place to place circling around not goin anywhere
Never escaping
Its yawn is false hope. The rumbling of a tounge that never puts forth anything except announcments of delays.
And I sit here
Listening to the scratching the leaking the cleaning of the subway.

Peace in the Subs

Piece by piece, things might just be

 falling   together.

The crumbling of the past has

s.c.r.a.m.b.l.e.d

to make some sort of

contemplative sense.

And I as I stand

too close to the subway’s

yellow warning blocks.

I’ve come to a moment of peace.

Acknowledging that maybe

the couples who stand and

show PDA like they’re in the 9th grade

aren’t so bad

That maybe Petting Da’ Animals isn’t

one of the worse travesties

a person can incorporate into their day.

Like maybe

Just maybe

there are worse things than

missing your train

Or having to

walk across the Brooklyn Bridge

because you have no money

Or maybe…

seeing two teenagers grab each other

swapping spit through the windows of a train car

isn’t going to be the end of the world

Its times like this

In the hysterically

deafening

underground

That I find peace.

 

 

PooP

Why does every train rider in the state of New York City

not have lead poising yet?

or SARS?

or bronchitis?

or some other

deathly version of demented torture?

 

It’s ridiculous that we do this to ourselves.

Voluntarily standing in a train that at any moment in time can just

Drip a drop of the most disgusting unbeknownst to man substance right on the corner of your mouth.

 

And u pray

it’s water

and hope

it’s not pee

           but

u know

it’s probably rat’s dropping.

 

Melted into this gooey deterioration called liquid

Smack dab in the corner of your pursed lips

And u gasp

And wipe

And groan

And wipe

And whine

And ferociously wipe

 

Cursing while prayin’

Your cuff sleeve can somehow manage to help u escape this

life style with exotically placed rat poop

That is filled with poison

That is made with led

That has now been washed by

spit and

engulfed into your system.

 

So why is it that

New Yorkers haven’t all just combusted into hazardous waste flames?

Or at least contracted something that can’t even be pronounced..

 

And I swear I’m not waiting for it

Or encouraging the discovery of yet

AnoTher deadly

       Lethal

Morgue leading disease

 

I’m…

Just…

Wondering.

New York Swagg

Maybe my life as a writer is just a little bit stalkerish
Especially as trainologist
Constantly studying
People and their interactions in the

Hustle and bustle of the

Sweat drenched train tracks

It was one of those New York Days
When the trains re route
Have to take about

5 different trains

just to get to the wrong direction

This woman…
One of those “obvious lesbian” types
Walking as though she had the answers to the world

Tight braids hanging below her neckline
Drifting to her shoulder
Kango hat tilted to the left
True religion jeans
Coach Shoes
Red Bow Tie affixed onto the

nape of her colored shirt

 

. . . S-w-a-g-g.

The definition of a New York Lesbian

The cry of masculinity beating from her

proudly protruding breasts
Neatly coveted by all those who aspired to be like her

My eyes

Keep wandering over her figure
                                            Trying to determine if she knew I was staring
Contemplating her as my fingers swept over my BlackBerry
                                            Wondering if she thought that I was interested

And I was…
In her swagg

As her eyes kept lifting over Dolche shades
To peek over and wink at me.

I *roll my eyes*

feigning as though I care not for her style
But as suffocating as her cockiness was
I couldn’t help but smile
While I was writing.

 

New Yorker Yoga

People do this little dance on the train.
Its the funniest thing.
One of the moves in particular make me almost want to giggle insanely.
Kinda looks like a move from a Pilates work out.
Its this one leg in front…
lean towards your right and tip as farrrr as you can to see if the trains coming. When you know and I both know that this will not help speed up the train one bit. It’s just random new exercise.

Yoga for the New Yorker.

This easy one two step reminiscent of a jazz shuffle is one of the things that makes me wanna join the subway movement.
Teach a dance class called metro impatience one-o-one.
But I suppose, it’s our exercise. Our subconsciously discreet way of stretching before we know we have to go on a 45 minute ride squashed like badly packed sardines.
Rotting…as we wait for the train…rotting while we’re in it.

New York sardines are spoiled.

Have gone bad from having everything at their fingertips…or more like metro card swipes but never using it.
As how many New Yorkers where the empire state building is and they give you and I roll and a particularly manicured nail flip in the semi right direction but I bet they won’t be able to tell you what it feels like to climb the Statue of Liberty. Most will probably look at you as though you’re from tourists gone wild
So much we take for granted as we bustle to go nowhere but right back on a platform to do our New York Yoga.

One leg in front of the other; lean in on the yellow tipped platform; breathe in shallowly and pray the lights of the tunnel brighten soon.

 

You Shouldn’t Have Gone To College

I wonder how many hours it’ll take this man to realize he should not have gone to college.
That his hours behind his cubicle would have been better spent reiterating the life of a homeless man with style.
Some people are not meant to be the big shot CEO…some are meant to pursue happiness on a park bench every morning from 6-4. that his life’s job should have been people-watching instead of stock counting. How amazing he is with numbers, variables and stats; but dumb how he is when it counts. and amounts to 14,693 hours of his life.

Y i hate 6feet 2inch men

His dick.
is far.
far.
far too close to my face.
far far far too deep in my personal space,
and someone, anyone, anything but me, needs to let him know:
That.
My.
Mouth…is soooo not his place.
I. Hate. the train.
I hate these people and their contacts and the noisy undesirable indescribable more despicable than anything way they breathe and their loud stares and
Silent Words
that deafen my ears.
This man and his phallic member
need to
BACK THE FUCK UP.
And stop.
leaning in every time the train pauses,
hoping, praying
the train will stop so his half unzipped clasp will just
FLY into my eyes and his
Pulsating
partially hard member will just
flop into my mouth.
And I hate
How everyone staring
But not doing anything about it.
Everyone’s in on the game.
Like the lady who looks like she’s seeping out of a KFC ad,
whose fat keeps dripping toward my neck, making it
impossible for me to escape
this
man’s
Dick.