delayed, service changed
we are the trailblazers
struggling through stone and soil
and motor oil slicks,
slip on the gap
WATCH IT!

we are the city rats,
scurrying between streets,
along rails that could **** us
and that have.
service changes, trains collide
we take deep breaths, and swipe,

we cant swim so we'll slide
through sunken subway lines.
at show time we'll roll our eyes
but smile on the sly.
we're in this **** together
so delays aside, we ride.

Gimme a rhyme
To pass my time

Gimme a dollar
Tighten my collar

Keep me in line
Revoke what is mine

No, I'm not doing fine
I walk a thin line

The judgement is there
I can't escape your stare...

The pages absorb what I think
My thoughts seem bleaker in ink

I don’t know why I keep coming down here
Into the dark abyss of these tunnels.
It’s like something’s calling out to me
Guiding my feet without my permission
Like I’m just along for the ride.

Water drips down from the lower level of the 82nd street station—
Downtown B and C train.
I’m in a cave with dripping stalactites
But instead of awe and wonder
All I’m bracing myself for
Is absolute collapse.

The train roars in
Ba Dum Ba Dum Ba Dum
Slowly making its way to a stop
With a whine of its wheels locking into place
And a screech of the doors opening, protesting all the way.

I know I shouldn’t get inside
Should walk the twenty blocks
In sub-zero temperatures
Where at least the light will shine—
But something beckons me from the darkness.

As the train slowly begins to move
I see the red and blue lights waiting, watching, outside the window
The apparent heterochromia of the monster that lives and breathes and is these tunnels.

I’m suddenly sure that I’ll never return.

You were a Rembrandt on the subway train.
Critiques of art would surely say
The canvas of your worldview
Rivaled masters in their day.

You were a tour de force of heavy strokes
That rendered my depiction feeble.
Your lambent eyes and lightning skies --
Why hurricanes are named for people.

To you, I was a peculiar stranger
Leering through the morning rush.
Admiring your impassioned presence,
Your steady hand and vital brush.

we all sit here, stuck in place
anticipating the  next event
all minds wandering by themselves
waiting for that day the stars would align and create something life-changing
like a dog waiting for a treat after doing a trick

after all, we're all passengers
individuals who eagerly wait for their stop
once their station arrives,
sometimes you have other people going off with you, but most of them are heading to different places and carrying various ideas in their mind
only a few people head the same direction as you
and within those few,
lies one heart, a heart that beats the same rhythm as yours
and both of you will meet again in another day.

Oh I am tired of soft words
I want to yell and scream and curse
I want my heart on the wind
Not inside my foul chest

All my thoughts and pains
Pressed in, pushed down and falling over
Struggling to find space to rest
like a subway with no exits

the panicked mothers’ child cries for all to hear
with no one kind enough to let her sit
and comfort the innocent cries of her babe

the constant chatter and commotion
of all the people, and all the languages
so many words said
and so few understood

the pushing, shoving and pulling
all for the golden prize that has become the seat
if only to sit and rest

all my thoughts and pains
warring for a place to sit
but there is no place
there are only the doors
the doors which never open

I see great ***** every day
in the subway
and, suddenly, my favorite Hitchcock movie changes from
Rear Window to Vertigo.
The movement of the train calms me down and I fall asleep quickly,
dreaming that I'm in Kerouac's car, quietly hitting the road
like ******* hit his canvas.

I see great ******* every day
on the bus that takes me home,
but not one single *****
for me to lay my ear on.
The dream comes to a crossroad where me and Jack have to part ways.
He'll go down in history like a great writer
and I'll quietly go down on memory lane in oblivion.

Memory disappointed me
and left a bad taste
in my mouth - literary ******* ain't what it used to be.

Everyone's talking their tongues away
Filled with life on the tired subway
Loosened drink and slurred to think
But only on St. Patrick's Day.