The FAB&PP Poem of the Month for January 1998
|
1. sitting on the subway at 5:30 am contemplating being and nothingness in the space behind your heavy eyelids where you sit what is it it's not the banal; the blank poster spaces the dusty whitewash of the unlit tunnel wall it's not a dreamless sleep or a sleepless dream it's not a ride to nowhere no destination no beginning no start no waiting no intentions so what is it; perhaps it's that being is nothingness and nothingness is blankness and what is blankness but a slate a screen a projection of what is what am and what was but not what will be the sense of eyeball uneasiness recedes as the sense of otherness descends the nothingness part is better than the being part and the being part is moved by nothingness waiting at 7:00 am for take-off writing this down listening to the earnest conversation on the seat telephone behind me the pink sky about to greet me the me part moved by being |
|
falsetto arpeggios from the fat man behind me on the bus a nervous lady on the subway waving at the cigaret smoke curling into the car from the platform floor outside (anxious for the train to move, she rises and snuffs the butt, checks it twice, re- gains her seat and breathes again only when the bell and gongs sound and the doors slide shut) Green Street next the sky valet with his foot up on the seat defiant on his morning ride to work for others' comfort his own securely fastened on the last free space he'll see today suits and bible tracts [the suits with baggage tickets the dark ladies with bible tracts] floors swept but still stained and smudged and scuffed |
|
he scribbles with his head down, no eye contact, no cold germs passed, no wonder in his observations, passing the early day within himself like the head phones and the coffee-clutchers like all the women everywhere riding with him the talker opposite with one finger missing from the hand holding his juice bottle the other fist armed with a donut shop cup whose mutters seem to invite conversation but whose strangeness reinforces the silence from his fellow travelers (he leans forward; is he dangerous?) or does he just know the guy who finally grunts back 'ok' the bored sky valet (i was at a party last night, but now look at me) is it all the morning illusion |
|
we fly to meet our shadow (the white moon in the morning sky) the sun beside us opposite paints the landing gear the shadow rushing toward us like a raptor closing on its prey tires clutch the tarmac the waning moon unperturbed our engines deafening the silent line of waiting planes which sit patient still mated to the earth their shadows longing to be free December 1997 |