For a writer with his or her ear open to the swirling noise of the world surrounding us, the muse is never more fertile than the sound of a city. This is one in a series of subway poems. lmr
sax player sounds
like kicks of insanity to
my brain. Metal doors close.
Intercom static blares
these undetectable station stops. &
with a sudden jerk, we are off, jetting.
jetting underground; jetting & imprisoned
inside this subway asylum... victim to the squeaks,
rumbles, shakes & rattles & the shift of side eyes.
funnel thru tunnel
vision for those of us
conscious enough to
detect this strange & brewing
sadness which sits across the aisle...
missing its rhythm, devoid of its urban
vitality, depleted of its biting machismo
and missing its eye teeth.
At times this city
makes something inside me
want to weep... but the riff spat
from some sad sax player sounds
like kicks of insanity to my brain. We get so wrapped up in
the steely glint
of our daydreams--
caught between the chrome,
& gold & green flash of flashes,
flashing just outside our vision, we
so rarely see how suffering becomes
this slow & tragic song & sycophantic
dance with a choreography all its own.
And the only music left:
inside the selfish circuitry of our head-
There's more where that came from!