Bus Seating
You sit over here,
I sit over here,
And if we're very lucky,
Nobody will sit in between us.
Perhaps I will put my bag down,
Just to make sure that we remain
Comfortably separated.
I'd hate to have to
Make conversation, after all.
Crowded Sidewalk
If you could watch him walk,
Just
him
mind
you,
He'd look like a dancer,
Ducking and w
e
a
v
i
n
g,
Now Here
Now There
Hopp-
Now -ing over to get
dog crap
Here.
Bus Lines
“That seat looks more comfortable.” They are both pinched by their current quarters, “on the seam,” as he calls it; so when the opportunity comes they strike quickly, seizing a recently vacated seat in a more comfortable area.
“You forgot your Pepsi,” she chides, and he reverses directions in mid-lunge to grab his bottle, returning to the new seat with a rueful grin on his face. They talk of nothing of consequence, satisfied with one another's company.
Another
He chooses to stand, feeling the rhythm of the bus's movements; standing with a bold grin at the rear door. A gatekeeper of sorts, though not intentionally, the poles on either side of the short staircase leading down to the street make it easy to keep balance while the bus strains to climb yet another hill. Seats empty but he remains standing (he gets enough of sitting at work, stuck in a warehouse near the center of the city, taking shoes out of one box and putting them in another, tedious work but no dress code and the pay's enough to live on) until he dismounts the ride and heads home.
Another
He hides near the back, his hood drawn over his face, concealing him for fear someone will try to start a conversation, a real face-to-face one, and he cannot speak while looking into the eyes, he gets nervous being that intimate. He holds a phone to his ear, speaking to someone who understands his problem and will never ask to meet him face to face; family can be understanding sometimes.
A lurch as the bus nearly misses a stop
Father and son sit side by side, saying nothing. The father has never been good at conversation, least of all with his son whom he fears will feel neglected and this will cause him to fail at fatherhood. He wishes his son did not have to ride a bus, and dreams of a future where he can watch with pride as his son graduates from college with honors, buys a car, a nice house in the suburbs. His son wonders what's on television tonight and dreams of being a basketball star.
A phone rings
“Girl, you know me! I'm nearly there!” Anxiety tinges her voice, there's so much between them now, old exes and her own awkward feelings of wanting something stronger than friendship (hopefully this her friend does not realize). “Don't you go drinking it all, I'm almost there!”
She's lost her job but tonight it doesn't matter, she's not going to think of it; alcohol will provide one more “fuck you” to responsibility because sometimes life kicks your ass and its all you can do to keep going, so smile and laugh and maybe tonight things will be different and she'll be honest about how she feels, even if it takes alcohol for her to feel brave enough this time.
A pothole shakes the bus
He's been through hell today, nearly killed by a falling piece of scaffolding, constantly sore, a headache that won't go away, the early mornings alone grinding him down. But when he left the job site today, staggering in his weariness, she was there to greet him, smilingly giving him a hug and a peck on the cheek that said so much more than a peck on the cheek and he felt ten feet tall. On the bus sleep overcomes him and she wraps him in a loose embrace, gives him a place to rest, lets him know she'll never leave him (though he already knows that, but the reminder is nice) and when their stop nears she gently wakes him and they head home to make dinner together.
Long Winded Rides
The motion of the bus is somewhat less than relaxing, a jerky series of starts and stops that nearly sends him toppling over sideways with a muttered swear; he manages to stay upright and mentally thanks whatever divine power happens to be listening at the moment that the seat next to him is unoccupied and likely to remain that way. He wonders again just why the hell he thought the middle seat of the bus was a good idea, the sideways seating directly atop the joint of the double-length bus gets all the bounces and bumps, and feels rather like a roller coaster at times. Normally this would not be that distressing, but the narrowness of the seat and the width of his own legs have him crushed against a metal pole where the bus's steady rise and fall (he briefly fancies that the bus is a living, breathing thing and then stops. Personifying the thing would only make it worse) compresses and releases his own legs, which take umbrage at the constant assault on their persons.
He's tired (having come from his job), and everyone else on the bus seems to share his problem—it's quiet, and nobody seems to be particularly inclined to do much of anything beyond staring morosely out of the window at the streets going by. He would do the same, but he's so tired that he decides to give napping on the bus a try. He'll wake up before his stop, and if he doesn't, well, the end of the line is pretty close to his apartment anyway. An extra two or three minutes of walking won't kill him.
It has always been a concern of his that his expression is too easily readable, though every time he's chanced to look in the mirror whilst smiling he hasn't been able to tell much beyond the slightest upturn at the corners of his mouth (he wonders if he's just so afraid of showing emotion that he subconsciously suppresses it, even when he's trying hard not to care about how silly he might look). This has very little to do with his own inability to ever really relax into a nap in public (though he's started to relax more and more, possibly because of a concerted effort to grab sleep where and when he can get it these days, as he's never sure when he'll actually fall asleep at night), though there is probably a connection between the two.
Either way, this time he manages to close his eyes, swaying gently with the motions of the bus, focusing on the drone of the engine noise to get his mind to wander. He dreams.
In his dream, there's a woman (there's always a woman, it seems) in some sort of danger; a collapsing...something or other. He, of course, must be in the hero's role (if he were not in the hero's role in his own dreams, it would probably mean something terrible), and rushes in to save the day. Only he lacks some of the unique hero-qualities—most notably the ability to not only save the day, but escape unharmed. His dream goes from rescuing the woman to being crushed under a pile of bricks, to being dragged to a hospital to spend some quality time there. The rescued woman is nowhere to be seen, which, he figures, is typical of this sort of situation.
He jerks awake, courtesy of a particularly short stop by the bus driver (he hates taking the later bus, the drivers are terrible) and grumpily considers the implications of having a brick wall fall on the bus driver. On the bright side, he notices a far more comfortable seat is now open, and relocates quickly before someone else notices the same thing. This seat is wider, and to celebrate he places his bag next to him to discourage any new passengers from sitting down next to him.
It's not that he doesn't like talking to new people—well, it is that he doesn't like talking to new people; there's a lot of putting up various defenses to keep from revealing too much in too short a time, there's the question of not coming off as a madman (which he does, from time to time, revel in for the hell of it), and there's trying not to unwittingly offend the other person (another thing he's incredibly paranoid about, and with no good reason. He's always been rather good with people, but it never ceases to worry him)—but buses are hardly places for conversation (though he did meet a fascinating man by the name of James one day, and if he were to encounter him on a future ride he'd gladly speak with him again. Something about a genial old man with a brown suit and matching fedora taking slugs out of a bottle of some rot-gut gin and reminiscing about his girlfriend's Southern cooking was incredibly compelling).
Whilst on the bus he sometimes goes around from person to person, piecing together life stories based on one-sided conversations held with telephones (vile things, he feels that the world would have far less yelling if they weren't around) and trying to write Humanity in his head. Many of the stories he comes up with are depressing things, stories of people trying to make ends meet in a country that doesn't want them, has never wanted them (despite its protestations to the contrary). Sometimes he sees too much of himself in the people on the bus and recoils, wishing that he owned a car so that he could avoid this entire mess.
He doesn't have a car, of course—and from the looks of his own situation, he's not likely to own a car for a long time yet—so he's stuck with the bus, which galls him, or a taxi (which would bankrupt him). No, he must resign himself to the bus. The bus, which (he suspects) is nothing more than a machine for people who have nowhere to be, because it sure as hell doesn't have the ability to get anywhere within a reasonable amount of time.
He tries to sleep again, but now the bus is stuck in traffic, and the constant starting and stopping makes it nigh on impossible, so he gives up and stares out the window, trying to reassure himself that he'll be home soon.
The faces of the other passengers all seem slack and lifeless, save for a small girl who appears genuinely excited to be on the bus. For a moment, he smiles and feels like perhaps the bus isn't that bad after all; he used to envy the kids who rode the bus to school when he was younger (of course, that could have been because he had to walk to school), one more in a series of things that other kids were able to do that he never got the chance to try out until much later. Reflecting upon this, he wryly thinks that this is one experience he could have done without.
The bus finally approaches his stop, and he gratefully hops off, feeling like he's somehow escaped in one piece and that alone is an accomplishment of sorts. He's got some new ideas, perhaps, from some of his fellow passengers, and certainly he'll have to try napping again to see if he can't avoid the hospital in his dreams this time. The bus lumbers off, trailing smoke behind it like some fat, lazy dragon that spends its time eating TV dinners while its mother inquires why it hasn't been out to eat some nice young maidens.
He laughs at the thought, a loud laugh that would echo if not for all the traffic noise. Several passers-by stare at him curiously, and this time, he merely shrugs and heads down the street leading to his apartment, whistling.
A Moment
It's only going to be in the briefest of flashes, and when it happens you'll have precious little time to take it all in. You're not going to know who's involved. You're not going to know much in the way of why things are happening. You're just going to have the moment, and if you can get as much as you can out of the moment, then you'll be just fine.
If you get nothing out of the moment, then it's probably on the fault of the author, who should really be able to describe his moments a little better. But that is not important now, what's important is this rapidly approaching moment. Pay close attention! Drink in every word!
Begin with smell. The scent of earth, first and foremost. It's a scent of potential, of living, of growth and beginnings and endings all wrapped into one. Speaking of endings, there's another scent in the air: blood. A coppery scent (or is it iron and you just think it's copper); itself speaking of life but in this quantity it's sickening. Sweat, that salty scent, almost like the sea; that's in the air too. Foliage, the smell of wood and leaf, in the background but dominated by the blood and sweat and earth, rounds out smell.
Now turn to sounds. First, the sound of breathing. It's ragged, labored, inhaling lightly, exhaling noisily. Focus on the breathing and you can hear other things, like the sound of something dripping (saliva? Blood? There's no way of telling), or the sound of teeth grinding together, a grating sound that's instantly recognizable. The sound of metal on metal, a crashing sound, the sound of feet shuffling in the undergrowth, and now a new sound, a cracking sound—the splintering of wood. A thunderous thud.
It's sight's turn now; two men, both wounded, fight. One wears no armor save a leather jerkin, the other is armored in plate and chainmail. The lightly armored one has just lost his shield, it sits on the forest floor, forgotten. The heavily armored one wields a longsword, and he uses it skillfully to hack away at the lightly armored man's defenses. The lightly armored one only has a short sword, and with no shield, he's at a disadvantage. He's using his mobility to keep alive, but it's clear that his luck will not hold out for much longer.
Take note of the way the morning light streams through the trees overhead, illuminating the two combatants as they struggle with one another, giving the scene an ethereal feeling. Watch the dust fly into the air, kicked up by their feet. Pay special attention to the falling leaves, the way they dance on the wind caused by the passage of a sword stroke. Notice how the sweat runs down the brow of the lightly armored man, dripping off of the end of his nose, causing his long hair to stick to the side of his face. Sweat mixes with the blood running from a cut over his right eye, causing him to blink and shake his head slightly; this nearly gets him killed by a quick stroke from his opponent. His opponent does not appear to be as tired, despite his heavier kit. If he's sweating, it does not show. He bleeds from a lucky strike to his shoulder, where two plates come together. It has affected his ability to hold his shield, but he refuses to relinquish it.
With a final cry, the lightly armored man rushes at his foe, hoping to pierce the breastplate by sheer effort. His eyes are wide, his mouth is open, and his hands both grip his sword's hilt. The foliage is churned up in a trail behind him, marking his passage. There is a final crash, but you are no longer there to see it.
How does the story end? Can you choose one side over the other? Was a woman involved? Who was the good man, who the evil one? You cannot tell. You have only the moment. Make of it what you will.
Morning Would
Roll over, hit the
Alarm, grab new
Clothes, take a
Shower, brush your
Teeth, and confront
The day without
Deciding to call it a
Wash and go back to bed.
The last part always was
Tricky.
It's a Gas
There's no secret to snatching
Success these days,
One need only attain
Precisely what every one else is trying
To attain--
But more of it than them
Because more of it
Makes you better,
Blesses you with
Freedom, friends, fantastical
Fucking phenomenal
Opportunity.
Go live the dream!
Do what you need to do
Because there's no other way
To get what you want
If you want to be comfortable
That is.
Do what you want
Once you've done
Your time in the mines,
Chase your dream once
You don't have to worry about
Where your next meal's coming from
Or how to impress the girls
Or where to live
Or how to pay your taxes.
Don't get me wrong
I think it's very important
That we all keep working
And nobody does what they
Really want to do,
What would that do, after all?
It simply can't work,
Won't work, you
Have to take
Responsibility
Do your
Part to forge your own
Chains. Otherwise
You'll just
Die like all the
Others, hungry
But
Free.
Is that worth it? The
Cost of living
Is your dreams,
Is that a fair
Price?
The cost of your dreams
Might be your death
But I hear that's not
Worth much these days,
So really it's quite a
Bargain.
Fine
Are you happy now?
Look at this! I think it's
Terrible, don't you? This is
Not a story at all;
It's something sinister,
Manufactured poetry--
Should I mention my mother?
Maybe some painful
Allusions, bring home the
Drama.
It's your fault, you know. I was
Happy telling stories, but
That wasn't good enough for you, was it?
Hydras! There, a mythological allusion,
To show I'm classy
Well read.
Keep the punctuation sparse,
Use it sparingly, space it out
Over several lines so that people don't
Know how to read it.
There I'm a poet now
Does that make me
An artist?
I've got stories to tell, tales of
The good old days and the
Not so good days and
Boring days but
This will be published
Probably taken seriously
Because you can analyze it
Easily.
Lazy bastards.
Criseyde
Troy burns and she stands on the shore,
Hears the dying,
Watches the smoke claw upward,
Souls on their way to Hades
Or somewhere else.
The ship carries her off
While her lover paces the deck
Impatient to be home
To see where he used to live.
He carries on with the crew,
Knows them all,
And so does she
(Perhaps in more ways
Than one).
She knew it would happen
She is forgotten,
Another trophy
From a war over trophies.
Greece is strange to her
The language is not her own
And the food's not her own
And her home is not her own
But his,
Even though he doesn't go there
Anymore.
She smiles in crowds,
She walks through parties
Wearing her mask,
The face she shows the world.
And when the parties are over
She goes home (but home was
Destroyed a long time ago)
And she sits regretting
In the dark
With shades
For company.
Criseyde
You've seen her in class,
Proud at her desk,
Back straight, eyes forward,
Viewing the world
With detached air.
She doesn't say much, nor does she
Seem to be paying attention;
Paying attention is for the
Smart or the stupid
(Depending on who you ask).
In the diners she is
Surrounded by people, always
Smiling, comfortable, collected.
The others walk by
And she smirks
Or says nothing
Or says something
But it's clear they are not the
Same as she.
She's better,
Or worse,
Even though she tries to be
The same.
And when she goes home
(Wherever home is (whatever
Home is)) she goes to
Her room and she
Tries to remember who
She really is
Before the loneliness hits
And she's got to
Ride it out
Like a wave
Or an earthquake
Or a strong wind,
A sinking,
Dipping dance that
Leaves her
Spinning around
Inside her own head
Behind the masks
She can't take off anymore,
Not even when she's alone,
In the dark
With shades for company.
