Feet flat, knees level, he takes the position:
wrists and forearms relaxed
and shoulders loose.
He begins with a quick combination,
flying like darts from his fingers,
while looking for advantage.
More alert now, he ignores obvious feints
and scrolls swiftly down,
shifting his stance to maintain balance.
He considers his strategy - and then,
sweeping away block-proof pretenders,
focused on his target,
he exhales and executes a precise killer 'CLICK'.
Smiling, he takes a well-earned bow
to sup his scalding coffee.
He's a Google-jitsu,
early-morning Master;
know him and fear him.

in   a    world  filled
                    with    pain
our      arid     inland    whelms  over
  the   swollen   sheen   of  the    borrowed   moon;

      faces     in    transit,
the       immense  rivulet     to   home     rogue without
      source
        people      undulating  like
the  weight of  a   subdued   beast
      regaining     consciousness,
                           these    shoals  rimmed  with  such  whiteness
    give     way.

                           unheeded        are   dislimned
slaughters    voices   muffled    to   fatal  nuances
             fast  days  in
the    rails     spirals      and  cascades of   both
   twined     rain and     tendril
         in   our   eyes   see   the gravid
weight   of   the   world    accompanied  by such    grave  silence
            arranging   a  rendezvous
                                          at   the  next   unmindful   station,
   trains       are       sad   rivers
   belonging                 to    no    one
                                              a  long   conversing   line
    of     kinder  tides   passing   quietly
               think    of   the    time   the   bones   are colder
than      alloys    returning   with  such
      intact   heat   or   melancholy,    was    it
   when    turning   away    was  no     troubling  task
        
                        machine    or    flesh
   forethought       or     afterthought
          outlast     and  outwrestle   the   circling   moon
   surly    from   above  and   swift  with
        flayed     light,   these   things   that    welcome
us   home    
                             piercing   the   solace
       dredging    the    traces    leaving   us   bare
with    intone       the     day’s commute  
                                     sings            tenderly –

The sound of feet is isolated in the tunnel.
Echoes of the slow steps of many fill the narrow space.
We march in silence.
Alone among the many.
We do this odd ambitious walk twice daily.
Twice daily this space is filled with the sound of the travelers and the workers.
And what about the times that betwixt the twice daily commute?
An ambiance like no other.
A roaring silence.
For those who have march here
They leave behind an echo,
an imprint of sort.
More ghostly than any ghost.
Haunting these tunnels with their essence
When the sound of feet is not present.

Train moves jerkingly north
Commuters ignore each other
Waiting for days end

I sat hard-pressed against
the plastic seat on the Metro,
green line to Branch Ave,
feeling the heat
of all the dozens of bodies that surrounded me,
5:30 PM and everyone
making headway for home after a
long, hot work day.
The swampy humidity
clung to my arms like sticky tack.
I wiped my brow with the sleeve of my
blazer
and listened to some 90s
R & B on my iPod as I
c
o
u
n
t
e
d
d
o
w
n
the exits till I could
free               myself      from
the suffocating crowd.
It was no day that was even remotely extraordinary,
no life-changing series of events,
no incredible people I had met;
nope, just commuting back to the SE quadrant of
town as I had
every day that summer.
I looked up and took
a snapshot with my mind;
I remember exactly
how that sliver of time
felt to me,
how it looked,
smelledsoundedtasted
as I realized my days in D.C. had begun to feel
like the norm,
that I had grown accustomed to the
claustrophobic train cabins,
the repetitive street names,
and
10% sales tax.
So suddenly there was this
catastrophic
timeturning
momentous magnanimous monumental magic
of the most mundanely minuscule moment,
as ordinary crawled up my veins
and absorbed me in it.
Somehow
squeezed.in.between
the rush-hour,
the annoyance, impatience, and near-suffocation
felt like
home.

Today the train wasn’t packed
Although moving space, it lacked
Someone got their bag caught in the doors, fact
And a woman elbowed me without much tact.

Luckily the man on the platform always has a smile
Which makes me happy while I wait a while
So I’m not in a bad mood at the end of the mile
That I travel, then queue at the escalator in single file

It is a relief to reach the suddenly cool air
And the breeze calms me as it ripples through my hair
I am then in no need of a jacket as I settle in my chair
And I forget about the cost of my journey’s fare

Hands clawing outward from a mass grave
Mouth gasping for air,
Lungs filled with invisible smog
Mind too indoctrinated to care

Pressed in against the walking dead
Face to face, toe to toe –
Clammy fingers entwining by seeing
Unseeing eyes staring into a blank void you well know

Drifting with the metal cage
Jerking back, coasting sideways, never flinch
Some escape, more cram in –
Nearing hellish Purgatory inch by inch

A screeching halt, your turn to flee –
Into the glass maze obediently file
Skinner's rats – jolted by punishment
Yet tomorrow you’ll do it again – another card on the pile.