The hectic hubbub of the New York subway – overwhelming, to say the least. Crack. Screams pierce any sense of peace remaining. Gunfire? Is this a riot? The businessman to my left Is too engulfed in the sweetness of his blackberry to even hazard a glance. As the commotion settles, people return to their normal pace. A hobo with a Goofy tee hobbles around, claiming he has AIDS in four different languages. Drunk, he comes up to me, Asking for a smooch. I give him a quarter. The smudges on his face Wrinkle into a frown. Almost falling, as if in a swoon, He looks at me. Dead in the eyes. “*******,” he says…
Tackle.
4 April 2012.
high school warm up exercise. twenty students included the same eight words in their poems.