At the 14th street station a hispanic man, medium height with a cowboy hat and a guitar slung around his shoulder walks onto the subway

passengers look on suspiciously...

as the doors shut he picks up his guitar in a well practiced fashion

the eyes of the train are weary...

he begins to play a classic sounding mariachiesque tune
spanish lyrics

A woman with green eye makeup and dark lip liner rolls her eyes and tilts her head back in exasperation

at the end of the short song a sigh of relief sounds through the car
he timed it perfectly to end as the train came to a stop

he takes off his hat and gives a short speech followed by "gracias amigos"
as he walks through the train with it upturned for donations

i regret not giving him money solely because of the expression on the green eye-linered woman's face

i walk out into grand central station and am stunned at the beuty of life

Beuaty is an interesting word for me because i cannot hear it with out thinking of the Jim Carrey line in Ace Ventura "B-E-A-Utiful"
this fact however does not save me from spelling this word wrong nearly every time i write it

Later Quietly drinking and crosshatching an old comic on a saturday
with a train gang of long islanders

miller lite is a heroes welcome
for a repugnant anarchist antichrist superstar
hidden beneath the semi-amiable skin tone, ****** orientation,
and likewise social status

the only thing left to do is commiserate
in the trappings of convenience and leisure
and the clash of Hadit and Nuit
thrumping thrashing in the sea

1000 troops to iraq again
and i don't mind to much
beyond the travesty is great comedy
for miller lite is a heroes welcome
to pennstation in late noon
and two corn dogs for breakfast

In the ancient shadows of illicit eons past
and only existing in the shadows of the now
I stare at the reflection of myself in the eyes of my sunglasses

The pallet and paints
that came

out of nowhere
may have been freaky

Was it an accident?

could be
could be not

YOU ARE THE JUDGE
YOU'VE ALWAYS BEEN

THE JUDGE

But what came after the paints
brushes, easel, and canvas

Was  The cornucopia

The repository
argosy

The treasure trove
That was

THE BOMB

an explosion of poetic
colors

red orange greens
Like a candy flake daydream

Of lush beuaty and Art

And art is truth, and truth comes
from the heart

And it's the heart
That gives your truth

its power

Her beuaty, how scary
Smooth and silky
Snowy white, deceiving
Has a need of touch
Wraps around the brave, blinding him,
Wraps around the world, a childish play
And nothing, no more
Nor beautiful
Nor scary
Like that wreath of hers
Milky gray
Grayish white
Leaves everyone a little dazed...
Her cold touch
And her touch is the only desire
Never a rush in admiring her beauty
Only slow steps
Calm walk with her by your side
In front, behind, everywhere you can see
No place for three world in thick fog, unforeseeable
However still so innocently pure...