Monday 30 November 2009

UnLiKe yEsTerDAy

Unlike yesterday- the drops do nOt soothe. It's dark and soaking... a woman's trousers trail behind. The cochlea of my inner ear is cold.-Cavernous with the howl of the wind. Echoing-screaming through. And through.

The long cut provides no solace. Wind. Swooping around that J bend, carrying a sharp mist followed by nearly horizontal needles and a fierce blanket of air...

The garbage truck doesn't have time to smell today. Sent. Scent carried away so fast. SoO fast. Around the corner I am a skeleton. Trying to move-bubble brella, almost ruined. Legs heavy, upstream I wade.

My scarf unravels itself and coat opens.. skirt raises. Hair swirls, forgotten hat today. I crouch and huddle. Crossed legs and bend. Who is this wind that undresses me?

Forehead bare, my hunched shoulders protect me long enough to where I need to be. A dry five. Minutes. Wait isn't so bad... I get on grateful, with dread, and I see...

An umbrella all alone as my opposite.. Handle extended.That's when I realize things cOuld be worse. With mine clenched- in a tin can I travel to the week's beginning.


Sunday 29 November 2009

SuNdAy sPlaSH

Walking outside was like magic. Mystic, bright. Cleansing-like that movie moment when all things fall into place... or that first kiss and the rest is history. A slant of drops-gentle and steady. Illuminated as far as marbles roll down hill.. opening up my underneath eye. Sparkles and shine. Glisten. I listen. Peep pops all around. Sizzle of splash.. I want to share this sight. Tiny dino boots stomp-unbendable, gleeful..as me in my steel toes. Double looks. The puddles seem warmer today. Drops tickle my cheeks and bring ease to my wide stride and city beat. Pleasure filled prickles.

Pumpkin pie for starts and my opposite is downward... another with pleasure. Croissant, moist. Coffee, take away.. and a book old. Old. Binding broken and threads free. Pages tanned and brittle.. words beautifully printed, before it was a cinch. I can almost smell the inside from here... Like and antique store, a childhood memory. Orange and green. Peas and carrots.. Harper Lee.. clenched in palms.. To Kill A Mockingbird. Designed well, hand-held. Holding hands through the cover. Hardback.

And that she is... stomping up on bus.. 10 o'clock hour, energy drink in hand.. screaming profanities. Wobbling and stick thin, almost in my lap. I can smell her breath, sadly, and feel her reinforced edges. The experience of behavior. For her, I offer three deep breaths and that illumination that graced me at my doorstep. The sky is grey here. Blackhorse Lane, with her I share.

Saturday 28 November 2009

SaTurDay TuRn bAck (3)

---------------------
Thursday June
7:40 am
date
four. four..
If you are counting...
---------------------

Sleepy and sunny. Stuck in the realm of linen chains, like a corpse from deep-awaken. Shaken. Popped and dropped, plans under the rug. Swept and sprinkled. Tinkled twice.

Glass peeked, my reflection. Yellow train triangle. Fancied, feathered, sleek-we stared. Eyes looked, smile like stirrups, adventures. Simultaneous search. Fly and foot. Worm. Warm. Satisfaction hopeful. In today's rotation. Galluped to crumbs. Anger. Lack of respect. Respite. Recognition. realization.. but on floor. Crusted. Camouflaged, conceit. Act to clean up. Care to pretend. Please to aim. Shame. Less is more? More less. Stress. Slammed. Stepped. Stairs. Frilly. Lillies. Bloomed. Dusty. Sugar song. Taste fresh air. Morning. Urban. Harmony.

First. Black. Blue. Brown. Brown. Blue. Concrete connections. Pupils. countless and questioned. Welcomed. Worldly whirlwind. Understanding. Sitting. Skipping. Wishing. Wanting. Walking. Second-first. flying. Motionless. Without blink. Stagnant humanity. Togetherness unspoken. Unnecessary. Locked in gaze-fueled footprints of today's delight.

AGAIN:
8:56pm on the 205

Woaaaaaah!! Swirvey and curvy, up top and low down. All around-clenches and looks. Near misses and sudden stops. A thrust, a slam. Aches to break. Simulation of drive not how to. Two contacts, tenses more. Brown and brown, again..add to the days hooray. We made it. and shared smiles. Laughs. Wide eyed, we still hold upon exiting. This is the last stop.

bitS aNd pieceS

Oh so many travels today. Without a scribble. A forge in it all, fingers pressed both ways... yellow. A recollection of rough hands and deep wrinkles celebrating the end of a long day. We cheered together.

Morning cold coldness and a piggy back crave. Train terminated and a cold tear. Brisk force and a nearly busted button-shallow breaths. A soft-faced woman, two smiles and eye squints. Breakfast shared. Satisfied, I sat with an abundance of color...but oh so heavy. Crawling and sprawling with claws I clicked on through.

Later-Long waits for cab, even colder. Van packed, Controller 04. In a shiny tunnel with eyes open I traveled inside of a serpent. Moist grout. Private voyage. Not curved for horse and carriage like one once told me. Chlorine nostrils and talks of a winky wonky donkey. Both fatherly tales. Not mine.

Arrival and freeze for hours. Containers of the uncontained- and a group wait for return. Laughs and side walks. A giddyup. Frozen tail bones and the return of celery stick shins. Made up song.

With tar feet of confusion we dispersed. Finally. Here there, bus, no DLR, no bus, no DLR. Split and spit patterned pavement. We dodge...laugh...puke piles and a giant glOb of gOO. Deptford Bridge.

Jokingly misled and happily negative-parted with a flip... he ventured on to rob that Bank and beyond. The after midnight race game. Ahh...Westferry at last.

Eyes drooping, I go.

Thursday 26 November 2009

gRavY

Blankly is this place between then and now-that one time and this time... I feel with tentacles. Sticking and floating-head of pressure, ahead of it all.

A day of thanks-for this moment-this page-almost last. This passage. This journey, a link of many. For one of my pleasures. The double train stop-double glass looks and books. Twice seen. Scene.

Thankful for that row of bright red brick along the tar brick wall, layers-For her joy of returning from a trip. With love and lost. Big luggage an a head of slump... for noticing her, an him-Standing, leaning.. should be pole dancing.. navy blue. Hot pink pen in breast pocket. Like Force. For catching a tiny glimpse; view finder. Click, slide changed. A frame... just the tops of a few buildings-Chimneys, Poppins-I jump.

That sound of flipping newspaper pages.. the wobble of this ride, writing difficult- I pretend and thank. One eyed and closed-something. Thinking. Two with Red Bulls-don't agree, but thankful he is finding satisfaction. Doors close sO loudly. Tired head aches..recalling to offer gratitude for my awareness for that....

Postcard reflections in greasy glass of sunrise. Like the shine in her frames on that perfect lean. The sun. Thanks for the silhouettes of naked trees.. offering so much, the morning semi silence and that gigantic ultra puffy, ultra white cloud. Explosive and plentiful. Like whipped cream. Sculpted to my liking- I want to bounce upon it and flee. Free. Fall. Digest it all..

Pulled back down, I am thankful for where I am- On the green, awakened awareness with extra gravy..... I loan you my spoon.

Wednesday 25 November 2009

thiRSt

Skin so thin. Mole. On the back of my neck. I preserve. Wordless this morning-happily so. The horizontal roll breaks the cotton wool stained of smog along. Gaze.

Amber shines upon me. Waking life. My eyes become see-through.. BiGGer than yesterday-From in here it is spring. I see a popsicle in the sky and I am thirsty

and I blink back.




Tuesday 24 November 2009

ciTrus in tHe ciTy

Twenty Five....and that she turned. Sweet. Sweetly. Celebrate. Sound. Spirals underneath and awe. Two twenty-fours ago...in that place, that stole my pump-ing out and in...

Seven down. Shut. Stride-four. Open. Shut. Stride one. Four more. Down. Tile Slippery. Stride. Five. Screeeeech stop. Stop. Like that Looney on the edge of cliff... I teetered, staring oh so tall-claw-of toes, unhelpful. -A three inch drop.. Gnawed chicken bone to greet me. Chuckle. Long stride oveR. Luck. Bone then bus. Immediate.

Scruffy. Rump. Chiseled. Stone-face smile. Better than the bone greeting. Morning.. etc.. swap of grin and words. Benevolence of approach. Long pony-shiny black, tied back. Dimples. Dark. European. Mediterranean. Handsome for the sake of so much....then he buys a Sun...

Even better.. down, turn, down, train at my feet. Jump on. Bag and bag and orange striped... I wonder about my day-about the filth of the handkerchief in his pocket.. about the separation of fast and slow.. the difference of being alone and being lonely...The race of mind.

Oh yes, ... what does it say today?: May your inner self be secure and happy.

A bit much to tackle this time and place. Placidly, I hope on my own. .. May those I meet on today's path carry positivity on a platter. My tray is too full for leftovers today, but indeed, I am still hungry.

And so it was..nearing the mid of the night as I type... showered with random bubbles of decency, of humanity... I reminisce- and continue to hope, indebted to their platter,
Satsumas for all.

Monday 23 November 2009

MOndAy miSSion


So it says: Be proud of who you are. What a gift. A fortune for one with cracker jack feelings and a burnt tongue. Yet another-wet and
d r e a r y day. Delay-Self inflicted foe and woe. Trousers tighter, eyes with added gravity. We are all stardust.

Internally downward- an under appreciated rug for them. Dark dialogue resonates, with a sip: reminder. Remedy. Be proud. Of who you are. Be proud of who yOu are... Instead of the focus. On what you are nOt. Instead of focusing on what I am nOt. Monday mission.

With a strain, there is a colorful reflection in that puddle-that sheen. Shield flexed inside out by that force...

-All in that piece of paper, I am aware. Proudly, a momentary pounce.

Sunday 22 November 2009

RuStLe of a SundAy stRoLL

Pressed of a dream with light. Leaning. Against. Downward force. With. Closed and open. Willing. Wanting that entry. Impermissible. Forgotten. Forged. Reinvented in red-that boisterous color. My fragile painted skin recepting wind. A breeze through the vast tunnel. Zoom.

Contine to dream, smile. Body warm-yet cold and lost. Like that building half deteriorated. Half torn. Demolished.. piles of brick and stone.. prediction of a musty smell... What used to be? Who was there? Corners rounded from weather and age. I cycle back to that memory- a dark hall- a wall. Taste of dust. Ballroom music and fancies. Ruffles. Marble. Silk. Pillars. Pressed with a stare. Like Merced. Decisions and decay.

Road-side. Orange berries grow and sway in candy land. Church goers go-books clenched. Threads chosen with care. Late comers come. Groggy-eyed, home. Crimson fruits grow... tempting.. not where the plastic bags in branches lay. Litter.

Family spotted. Not too far. From me. Scruffy. Ginger bread beard. Holiday time. Grizzly, gorgeous. Double stroll-her and double sleep. Baby dolls clenched. Companions.

Cold and chilling metal, they say, unhealthy for a sit. Noise.Leaves racing along ground. Trees sway, brushing the hum. Hymn. Occasional motors-vibration, drag of feet. Passing me- flee.

Grid of ground-a slow walker. Reinvented. Reinforced. Stick. White tape like hospital bandages. He smiles and chats. With an elderly Louisiana twang, his voices is weak, with a stranger not seemingly so. Actually-not southern USA at all...

I think they are right-cold metal isn't a spot to sit. Frozen buns. Broken bible binding next to me.. he finds the sport section more entertaining. So what? With the race of mind, turning up the volume, I lift. So cold, even canal. Anticipating roll, we gather. Huddle. Wanting. That open door.

Tiny and shriveled less than his wife, Louisiana still standing. Leaning. Eye glasses with a chain of tiny metal beads. From the chain of a pen in the bank. So happy-high cheeks, them both. Struggle with step, I escort him on. Arm-in-arm. For the big step and beyond -Forced into slow motion, he thanks. Slowly sits. She asks him "Where have you been!?" Giggle.

Observed from behind, they gesture. Converse. Enthusiastically. A pink gauze Sunday hat and fuzzy blue with snaps, I think of how long their conversation has lasted. Fifty plus. Sixty plus.

Elevens up, loving their Sunday stroll. And for this, I love mine too.

Saturday 21 November 2009

SaTurDay TuRn bAck (2)

------------------------
This day: June 24, 2009

------------------------------------

What is it about a shoe and a foot, a sole and a stride? Different shapes and variety of size. On speckled floor the tube a sways-supported by our bottoms of two legs-

Styles and shapes similar to a peanut-a pitter patter and tip tap all the way p a s t. I stare, I rumble, I scribble-about-
do they know what I write? That, I doubt. -

A sandal escape, thong of average-a black flat worn to bits, two bits, with a hole like a savage. Wrinkled boots defy the norm. Pin holes in pointies like a swirl of a storm. White socks with black-straps on the go. The bend of flat fancies with peekaboo toe and bow. Metallic and rope like, cork and a cheetah pattern-What one bounces with it-does not matter.

As I walk, I stare, eyes down-nO frown here... So much to see and their clicks to hear and here-Shiny red with a spike and comfortably corporate up ahead-It is the gladiator, for me and the flop of the flip that I dread. Elf like and fun colored, loafer bread brown-Leather and feathered.

Textured, embroidered, suede perhaps? Even a crown. Rubber, studded and striped-It all changes as I glance around.

Straight jacket of shoes-heels with a lace-athletic mixed with sex appeal- a face of grace. An urban alley-Stolen from the bowl-A pigeon's claw and heel in a hole. Travelers with socks and water proof sandals, misery revoked due to his mustache with handles.

Step, I must, in star's delight-green like olives with a canvas fight.

bArriErs distinGuiSHed

Friday November 20, 2009










Maroo
n paper. White font. Rectangle, folded. Stapled, tiny. to string: The other person is you.

Pin it. Lapel. Quiet zone. Consider. Outsider, not so. Stop the clock- Not the train. Misty fingers pulled me back. Denying.
The divulgence. Eclectic 24 easing. Pleasing. In my ears, idled.

Pile of tires bridge side. Repugnant. A lump on a log-I used to be accused of. At times, a necessity-to be still. Now, never. Always a race-a face-they do not show theirs. Like that barbed wire along the fence.Barrier. Belief. Preservation for their one and perhaps only. Their guard just different than mine. Invisible. I also wear.I also climb.

Soaked into their clothes.
A smell of food-makes a growl inside.

Right, breakfast time. The last of the bread and cheese. Rapid stuff, hardly a chew and a juggle into the wind.Rain. A first time conversation, gladdens. Into the blur . Passing so quickly out of focus. We share the morning failure of an earlier arrival.

The other person is me, after all.

Thursday 19 November 2009

RacE trAck of bOne

Pumas and new train companionship. Once removed, as I could never grasp. I thought of her. Seen. Scene of yesterday. When I bent. Slipped on. Walked out. Today. Half against the lay. The law. Run. Made it. Maybe neighbor too.

Trotting. Curve, like a giant J. Found one engraved yesterday. Fork. Bricks. Chicken bone. Still. I thought. He tripped. Laughed. Twice. No fox, nor r a t. Text attack of distract. Unusual. Upney. Nearly. Time.

Agog building up.

Maybe I'll continue.
Maybe not.

Slaw and a stare. Coming and going. Folds of skin and woven buttons. Piano playing fingers and race track shoes. A switch and a flee.

Just me.

Wednesday 18 November 2009

RUNning Out oF sTEam

Clouds are heavy. Very heavy. Smokey. Warranting a release-layered. Stacked. Like a backdrop. Unwanted, but true. Inescapable. Up top, deeper-distance, light. Nearly white. From there- I might look white too.
Vantage point. Expectations of alleviation.

Aches. Wrist. Shoulders. Hips. Rusty ball bearings. Baring it all. Squeaking. Pitch, so high. Wheel. Water. Well. Heart strings-violin. Soloist. Wind has my eyes cold. Separate from sockets. Broad.


Half a purple house and a porcupine bag-the conveyor belt of today officially begins.

Tuesday 17 November 2009

brEad and brEath

And there I was. Standing a safe distance behind that line so easy to jump. Eyes closed. breathing- not simply. Counting the pairs of in and ex halation. Up to ten. Repeat. Listening to the sounds. Around. In the hustle-I am calming. Oddly enjoying.

t r a i n w a i t.

In the current of the scent. Black Chai. Tag of knowledge today: Live for each other. I could argue both sides. A whistle awakens my count. I peek. Resume.

Prior I pranced. Not really-but in essence. Rarity of soles I wear. Cracked and loved. Soft leather with a braid. Broken in. Broken down. Spaced out- Nine eyelet hooks. Six eyes. Each side. Twenty six eyes today all together. See. gumsoles. Extinct. Unrepairable. Love sticks amongst every thing else... and I am reminded of her.

Thirty years plus-younger. soles. Souls. Trolls. Me? Unborn. maybe even swimming inside. As she wore. These. Zodiac.

Through the non-short cut I search. I see. Only one windowsill out of several opportunities. Although-they ring vacancy. With each pace. I feel the droop of my left cheek-out of place..

Inner struggle over whether or not to eat my breakfast bread and cheese. Planned on ceasing to eat yesterday. Not entirely. Just cH. Thought. Buy a solution from an infomercial soon... or perhaps attend the nOt-so leisure center I donate to..

Thankfully distracted- I see the comparatively baby trees. Lost leaves. Preparing for new growth. I see a favorite. Most leaves missing-but the highest leaf. Flattering in the wind, I smile for that leaf. I smile for noticing. I smile for the day and the brightness. I smile for the freedom. Most of all, I smile for the bread and cheese.

Monday 16 November 2009

in the sPlishity sPlAsh of it aLL

Watching out for curb-side mini lakes is a must today. Small reservoirs are splashed with exhaust and rubber.

With a plethora of pedestrians, the observant observe. As they are meant to. Both sides. Soles and rolls. Roles. Purposeful splashing isn't unheard of.

There's a calmness in between the grace of the slow drops. Treasured for the trek. Umbrellas cram the streets like weapons. Safety goggles and patience recommended. Hard to come by. Can't get anywhere in a hurry when tiny sprinkles. Equals. All umbries to ope. Unnecessary shields. Mine today yellow for sense of sun. Kept closed. We slept with the pour down. I wouldn't mind to have had a bit more. Sleep, not rain.

Out of the ordinary. Bus. Reader down. Can't swipe. Sign taped on the circle. Thick black marker used. I bet I'd like that marker. "Reader down, HAVE A NICE DAY." I sign the petition to try...

The stop and go train-unauthorized-deserving apologetic announcements make it difficult. Sacroiliac pulse and heavy lids distracting. The light rain on the train roof is calming, like needles..

and it's time to exit into the rush of it all. Petition in pocket and a red hat by my side.

Sunday 15 November 2009

BlUe.bAll.SUNday.wOrds.

Lucky me. S E V E N tube closures today. Seven out of eleven. But, I am a fortune finder. My journey? Uninterrupted by the fix of it all. Below surface, like a murder scene in the movies. Do not enter tape everywhere...luring me to tangle. The hanging paper on the wall blows that certain way, letting me know it is my turn coming up. Now that I think about it, there weren't any other turns to take near me. Indicator not needed today.

On. phew. Red upholstery dingier than usual. A bit more active than usual at this time. On this day of the sneak. I lag a moment. Trying to decide. Where. To go. To pick the best. Three girls. Party pj's. Last night's accessories. Sit like a triangle. Two more interested than the one. Annoyed. I scoot by anyway.

Then, there is him. Round and blue. No mercy on my favorite of hues. Sweatsuit. With tiny lint balls more than velcroed on. Various blues. Top.Middle.Bottom. Pants a bit short. White socks. Navy blue trainers. Sneakers. Never used for exercising. A mouth breather. Open with those lips like sausages. Not all there.

To be fair though, who really is?

He half-stands hunched as I get on and leans over to the area I was going toward. I waited. He grabbed. Adverts. For that store that looks like the Wolverine M. Groceries. Somebody had left them behind. Blue man sits back down, spanning over his three seats. He straightens the papers so the edges meet as fresh from press and sets them aside.

Now I begin to see. I look closer. His eyebrows are crossed, eyes glazed.

He is like that man I see on Saturday afternoons, well, pretty much all afternoons I am on that Roman of Roads. Sitting in the same spot. Facing the same way. Staring. With his portable radio. Always alone. He has brown on top. Blue man has gray. Both tops wild. Physiques the same. Like those striped rounds on that movie with the rabbit and the acid trip. A black hole...

Blue man sees something with intent one /(two) seats over. In between the cracks of two seats... somebody has left.... a tiny white balled up gum wrapper. It takes a couple tries for him to wipe the wrapper from his crack. Not his crack, the crack he has seen to be his. Mission.

The tiny paper ball barely bounces to the floor and rolls near his foot. Disaster. He does nOt want this by his foot. Clumsily he tries to kick it away from him. After three tries he is satisfied. A safe distance.

I am writing as if at this point I have just noticed this particular feature of this blue man...but, I admit, it was unavoidable but to notice straight away upon being seated. It was unavoidable to stop looking as well. Unprotected. Unsuspended. GIANT...like a bunch of grapes stashed. No wonder why he sat with legs at 130 degrees.

He wide-legged it off, in the opposite direction of the exit.

A bit amused, mostly sorry. I sit for one more stretch. I hope he has somebody to talk to, if he wants.

My turn. I am relieved.
Off. Back on:

My neck is like a speed bump.. where it meets. Upside down. Capital T. Instant. Hot. Diluted. Slithers down. So hot. So hot. My vacuum cleaner hose sizzles as I swallow. It hurts, like I suspect a hairball would too.. but maybe a different kind of hurt. Probably a different relation with it as well.

But, it all warms... even inside my ears.. my sternum...a unique sensation. Like on an empty belly with cold liquid. And then with a belly shake.. the liquid can be heard and felt inside. Shocking, yet expected. I remember it happening with cold o.j once- I was stunned. Thought I had a hidden talent at that single digit number that once was mine. Told my mom with glee.. had her listen. I should check if I still have that talent. I should check if my mom would still listen.

Sunny and semi-Off roading, cinnamon again. Years of paint chip away along that soft wooden windowsill. Documentation of who and whens. Ideas churn.

With this early sun(day).. the pale shines and shadows appear. I've missed them. Shadows. Glare catches me. I don't blink. I don't shade myself. The extra light, the better.

Up top, I feel big.. and simultaneously am reminded of the truth. How very small we all are.

Two huge rock-bricks on the x marks the spot. Stop. Shelter. Symbolic of the two that he is missing, down below. He shakes his head. No ramp. Not his ride. Up here I am...

Interrupted.

A young'n and suspected sitter. Double sit. Across the less than red missing carpet. The very little. Very eager. Picked his seat.. Listening, the both of us. Stories of sage from the sitter... "Sage, king of the herbs...like banana is king of the fruits."

In front. Elevated. We all have big eyes. And at about four years old.. I am doubtful he minds much.. of an herb kingdom.

Actually, it was basil... but still.

Saturday 14 November 2009

SaTurDay TuRn bAck (1)

For the first Saturday I introduce the turn back. A page from a different day.

–––––––––––––––––
This day:
August 29. 2009.
–––––––––––––––––

I am here. On borrowed paper. Like a dyed blue rose and dreamy eyes-a surge.. a rush.. the burn of the core. For something more. A feeling like a geyser. My eyes are wide for this shared wind of humanity.

Dedicatedly noticed, forever engulfed by wonder and awe- of separation, yet concreted. Bonded like a brick wall. A walk. A wash.. A desire for sea to stop and to
j u s t b e.

Beneath that arch with that smile. The one that is long. A timeless mind, a healing step into the mystery of the directions where has beens are will bes.. and what's it are who's its...
and we care.

Free to swim. To return as we began, beneath it all. Before this land. This route.. hoolah hoops... when express was merely part of expression.. when whO you were meant mOre than whAt we did. What we do. the strive to preserve or prevent.. persona... proof... in the axis.

The onion cutting eyes of feeling connection. But not able to reach... constant thought. True appreciation. Shielded with a shaded window. Shared. Journey ahead, today... staticity of a traffic jam.. but I can sEE...

a carousel- a cArniVaL of life.

FriDaY the 13th? nOpe. SimPLy thE wInd.

___________________________________________
Before you read on:
triskaidekaphobia \tris-ky-dek-uh-FOH-bee-uh\, noun:
Fear or a phobia concerning the number 13.
___________________________________________
I hope the black cat stayed away from your path.
___________________________________________

Y e s t e r d a y:

He said his bag of man was made from ________brock?Bock?Buok?Buck? He said, with pride, "It's kind of like an antelope." I thought, it's kind of like it's still breathing. Disgust. I had to ask. Ballerina-like. Straight spine. Elite length. Posture. Him? Coatless in morning downpour. Poor him. No, poor antelope. Cruel. Ugly. Terrible to touch. Part of the 277 crew. I splashed. Passed. Responseless-after I asked. I had to . It was proudly on display, on multiple days. I guess he dId have a coat after all. It just wasn't his. Wasn't borrowed. Simply stolen.

So many events. Train termination. Attempted coffee. Lost money. Missed train-coffee in chunks. In mouth. Curdled. Dumped. Paper cup in pocket. Fall in puddle. (Not me). Saved. Corrugated. Card. Bored? No time to be.

Desperate. Refill. Instant. School kitchen. Rushed and flushed. Extra hot. Extra water. Fingerprints removed. Double coach. Extra-Fieldless trips, day two. Superstitions in a number. A day. Dungeon and Globe. Spin and rot.

Poison asseverated. Sip. Sips. No attempt to forfend the future over hang. Walk in company. Practically soldiers for making it through. Not hardly, in the true sense. Lessons of cover. Roses of skin and ice. And me.-

Two hysterectomies. Potentially a vasectomy. After the head pulse of pre-teen-scream, two agree.

A round. About. The electrical box bangs. Cords out, like brains. A speckled head like a brick I saw later. Jay walk.

Split. Dirty. Dirty green. Food remnants throughout. Beetroot cake, delicious. Thick. Vegan-like. Big gulp needed.

A lock in. Needed my foot in mouth. Compliment of regret. Similar to thing you say when someone isn't actually pregnant. Locals falling about and V signs just for me. On a styrofoam platter. Take away container. Sadness and slurred speech with hatred, " We all knooooow whASss goin ON...". Ready Salted save me. More than OK. More to say.

Bromleys. Bow and Arrow. Howling wind and freshness. Comfort. Strong and powerful. Me, mesh-chested, wind right through. Milieu of thrust and rhyme. Carapace set aside. Alley. Shelterless. Umbrella hand. Stands. Legs in motion-slow. For and against it all.


Long and short. Friday journey. And finally-I could be. As she, in the beginning.



Thursday 12 November 2009

exTENSion of the wAit

Ended last time with trash talk-more- out the door.
Empty. Two reds just left me...w a i t.

Expectedly, my interior world crumbles, only for a bit. Arrival one.

A reminder to me. That it's morning. That I shouldn't be spending this silent time with her. Too late, but great. Results. Arrival two.
Now I don't mind her too much. Then I see!! It's him! The DEEEEE SEV superstar. Seven(ish) a.m. smile. the driver of all drivers. Enthusiastically behind his wheel, he leans down with wide eyes as I beep. Body language to gain notice. Him, always in front. Of us. Friendly at no cost of his own-enlightening my morning-reminding me to lift. Plopped in the back, almost all flexibility lost, I try to sneak a pic of my friend. Why not? Is he my friend to call? Sick of stealth and self crumble momentarily repaired- Before I exit I say... video diary.. blah blah.. he says, "Sure." BIG GRIN-abolish reflection, and sNaP! (actually, it wasn't a snap at all... more like a tiny mechanical noise and faint finger tap). My grin might have been bigger than his.
Outside, a grand happy cackle lady greets me screaming.. "Souveniiiiiiiiiir!!!??" Her hair is like burnt curly fries. I was tempted to eat one. I usually burn things anyway. No discretion for an early fry. "Not quite... just my favorite driver", I shouted back as I walked/hopped to morph into a pigeon again- I had to make the light.

I stop for sighting.- A fall fave. Formidable spot upon black.
Pressed in pavement. Almost a fossil, with exaggeration. Goodness, I realize... I have nO time. I'd nEver make it if I played like this. Focus Jessica. Focus. gO. gO. A right swoop hook, a left, and a right. I think, hmm.. the newspaper vendor hasn't been around this week with his 17 foot paper piled table. I hope he is okay. He is plump and red. Has a candy apple nose and a chimney that bellows.

To the underground... Moving this fast through the turnstiles, I have reconfirmed myself in "go mode."
And, crap. NOt my destination. Then-The familiar and unappreciated announcement.. WaWaWaWaWah... District Line delays... nOoOoOOOOo. Why me?!!!!

Crumbling again. Waiting.


With them and more and more.
Three Barking dogs later-mine.
And what do you know? Again-my semi opp is 19 distressed in flesh, sour face dill. Oh .. I wish I could get a pic. Different flats. Grayish like a typical London sky. Wrapped with a toe bow. She's like, tOtally unamused. Iphone gripped as a weapon. A weapon of stature.

It's sunny today, like my winter vest. Yellow and blue. slippery slopes. I'm sandwiched.
Rapid gum chewer, brown leather on right. Olfactory glands picking up on it. New jacket. Jeans, two tiny scratches with scabs on right wrist visible. Arms crossed. Clean shaven. Blue eyes with red road maps. A gambler.

Left. Metro reader...no, wait... a gazer. and an under cover nose digger. White-capped. Matching white cords leading to his ears. Marketing at it's greatest. Jeans low, sacrum sitting. A sideways mouth with prickles.

Not only a them sandwich.
Layers to laugh at I wear. Anticipation of a a day outside, I am hugely immobile. Couldn't reach in my pocket if I wanted to. I can smell my egg white on rye. Ohh... would it be rude to eat it now? The scent steaming-traveling... will people float like that brown fuzzy to an apple pie? Does anybody actually put them in the window to cool anymore? Wait, does anybody actually make them anymore?

Back to the point.. as if people could and would float to my highly coveted eggy smell, it is doubtful that they would. After all it's early in the morning and there could be an energy shortage amongst the crowd. Most likely, the paper towel has bonded itself to the top of the warm egg. Classy. Anyone for a bite?

I want to walk alone. Ride alone. Mornings. Is that a crime? Ditched, not so much, cos at the end of the car... inescapable now. Upon exit, reunion. I'm running out of time for egg white on rye. I'm running out of time completely. I eaves drop. A lovely Irish girl's accent-no, two. A confident talk and make-up app. Oh F, it's time for the E.W.O.R. I'm hungry. they eat chicken on the train...OH, gross... and I'm eating the egg... Let's not get into that. Ew, I just kind of lost my appetite. Sadly- adding to my inner struggle, a bit of the yolk slipped in the pan too...

Same yellow.Sky. Inside my vest... Preparation, 19 articles. Thick tights. Thigh-high sky blue socks with stripes. Wide short jeans. Black skin tight (tank) trapping heat in. Thermal (with stencil sent all of the way from her-a mother, I respect) deep gray-they say, charcoal. Long sleeve lycra. Another black tank-not the army kind. S/S tee, that the green the army hAs claimed.-Polka dots on top in lines. Wrist warmers, I'll call them.-Colorful. Wild. Stretchy. A Bonnaroo memory. Oh that time... The WOOHOO man. Tennessee. Tents. Trips taken across the roads. Former. Leg warmers-Arms only now, also charcoal. The short black paws again. Forgotten, ratty warms along my shins, also army owned. Gray hoodie-inner softness preserved, you know how. Thin green ultra zippity zips, sprayed faint, jacket. Ski vest. The yellow and blue aforementioned. Brim, corduroy. Thick, like a conductor's. A dense one around the neck like night, coiled to cover. Boots that used to shine. Deeply loved. Tater tots, steel enclosed, square and scuffed. Do not microwave.

Gus, bus-Discuss much? Oh, how I'm showered with good fortune today, more travel. School trips. DELUXE motor coach. Mr. Sepke used to say that.
Whispers of fancies. Screams of potential sea, no, road sickness. Beautiful bridge with long stronger than simple strings. River. Oh, truck speed. Whited out my view. Reflection produces. Cerebrum eyes.

Scavengers almighty. Adventure book. Colors bright. Sun flashes like a strobe light through the trees. On the move. Club 12 and under. Destination. 800+ years old. Stone and moan-several on the throne. Who? Ha, hmmmm...
Kid patrol on common grounds. Loose and leashed.
Wheels round-we roll... and I rock to talk. Boot legs on tiny screen scream. UP (I go), This Is It.

Hours in between.

Two-by-two banter. Spain, commonality. Darkness, the same. With a name-that flies. He pointed to a plane. Satirical. More than surface skimming and paint thinning-thought required. Desired. Decisions in a blue book sent eyes astray.

Younger than my boots, sat with content. Coins spent. On Claw. Prize won. Prize sold. 10p. Buyer pleased. Passenger perplexed.
Done. I walk the straight. Westward, I won. A smooth sail. On. Empty across.

Pleased. Places to go and peace precious. My voyage continues with muddy tracks.Off. Lacking patience. Prior peace released-rain. By foot. FULL hands. Free shoe wash, great. Much needed. Wait. 388. On. Off. Trot. Wait. Huddle under-overflowing. Wait. Wait. Highlighted. Head-lighted. Drops grow.-glow. Like gumdrops landing-scattered. I imagined the matching artificial noise. Like the start of Bambi-beep bop, beep bop... not quite in that order. If only I could gather, chew, blow bubble big enough to float away aNd withstand the wind.. Anyhow... More than ridiculous wait.

Unbearable. Growl. Wait. wAit. WaIt. Weight. Shoulders pressed. Distress. Wait. Estimate-over 20.


Finally. A little Red. Riding. In my hood, gumdrops. Through the door, wolves race. Capacity. Doors won't close. People won't move. Singles take up doubles. Pigs and wolves. Fog. Steam. Unison lean. Windows smothered. Slug speed. Usual 20 max, 45 plus this eve. Shallow breaths. No photo op. No hand to spare-no care. This time, wAs mine.


Left side. Along side.Finger graffiti smiley. Pfft. As if. Not interested. Girl aside stuffed from nose up. That sound of inner drown. Nostrils, out of order. Coughs withOut covers. Inches near. OCD soon, and media instilled fear.

ThEn... in my ear... Button erroneously pushed in king's quarters..
Recording played: "There is room available on the upper deck." Eyes closed to calm, I laugh aloud and open. Two others join me. In awe.

Imagination extends. What upper deck? Should some of us move to the roof?


And again I lift. Just for a moment.

Wednesday 11 November 2009

gRRRR


______________________________________________________________
Backwards.
First below. Then above.^ Words and lines. One in the same.Sitting. Seeing.Leaving, most inner dialogue behind. Self preservation on a toy train. With her.
______________________________________________________________

If I had a knife to section off my area of allotted space-a straight line from my seat... he would lose . From six inches diagonally cut above his right knee down. A bit of his elbow too. Fake sleeper.

UGHp to go move-a purposeful foot tap to awaken.. and a look of disgust.Yeah- I'm moving because of you. S p a c eI n v a d e r.

Tracked to a separate car. Peering at me-visible through two panes, pain.

A load of rubbish.
In honor of the 40th anniversary, a day late, I am
Oscar the Grouch.

If only I had a tin can.

Tuesday 10 November 2009

rePeaT run-ins

What a treat. The late faces few and far inbetween-no bus in sight--empty stop. Priorities mistaken, 304 door shut even later. Bread and cheese, a rolly, borrowed pod, packed plastic green with plans. Cherry on my tomatOes-off and out.

Stressed and heavy-double bag and lag. Bundled to uncomfortableness this day. This journey. This morning, my wrist can barely rotate... my armpits are stuffed. It will be even harder taking the armor off. Prepared.

Phew. Upminster 1 min. Back in pulse, self inflicted-growling. I walk to my spot. Same spot by the beam missing tiles. Candy cane tape. Far enough from the Barking and work goers huddle. Too early for me. Too early for a jaw flap. Disappointed, yet again, with that ancient concept of time flying. I am low by the yellow line, my skin is drooping.

Then-a treat. The digital book man! Waiting, in my spot..no, our spot. Not a word ever spoken- many journeys shared. I have particularly noticed previously- Him, reading a digital book in a caramel leather case. A giant graham cracker. Always poised, matching the digi book user's profile. Preppy with a lip curl. No pages to turn, no smell of second hand seemed a shame. He stares. He stares at me now as I write this. I'm grinning with ease and looking at his face.

Temporarily, forgetting about my rush.

Writing without looking. He is my opposite today, possibly less so than the absence of words scream. At my jumbled writing, my page, he stares. Without kaleidoscope eyes of that Beatle, he cannot see, but strains. Still pen to paper I wait for his rise. Finally. He looks up. Horizontally, into mine---and quick! Quickly-an eye shift from mine to the wall (his right), to the openness of the train, his left...and back down to his book. Expressionless. Clearly a fan of the marble game. I lose to win every time.

Right, so he's looking at his book.Newness. To my surprise-not his digital delight. A mere paperback. Shiny. "Dude Where's My Country?" Where about is his country? Are we Moore of the less? A shuffle. A crinkle.. crinkles to his left. He stares.. I look..

It's 19 and flesh, tiny mice in flats.. yesterday's opposite. Today's was more fun. Her feet still cold, sadly I realize yesterday's mistake. At 19 ish she is not as whimsical as I interpreted her to be. She is crossed and greasy. Shouting upset and turmoil. Hopefully, I am wrong again.

Doors open, digi-man disappears.

Colorful purple, orange, bright blue woman sits... We share the hue of this blue. Ahh... intensely she reads thick pleasure. Filled with anticipation, only a tiny pinch of pages until it's done. Accomplishment around the bend. The last page.

One stop to go- I see another familiar. Same mid age as colorful, she is long. Perfectly groomed. Molded and sprayed. Blondish. fox-like. Pitch black lenses perplex. Smileless. We exit at the same.. Wait, nope, today she didn't.

Does anyone else notice, or care? Is it just fascinating to me? 7 million people in this city...

Westwardly, two more recent random run-ins from Sunday work. The repeat count today lands on four. No, five. One of the two locked eyes as we figured the familiarity. Aha, we got it. Finishing up a long days work.. it doesn't seem that interesting anymore.

Green west, now red west...Ah.. Liverpool St. Station...human arrival and departure. The evening race for empty seats.

They crunch in. Suit with long wooden-hooked black umbrella and stilt legs lunges forward. Only took three steps, when most would require five. Almost diving for that one and only bum rest... and a semi head first crash into the vertical red pole.

"Go on lad, that's the spirit!"
All worth it for the seat.

Monday 9 November 2009

my mOrning (and mistypes)

Oh, that's fun, 9-11-9...decadence in the date.

So... the toaster and kettle stopped/popped at the same time this morning-mourning. Wholemeal/sage-clearly a sign of the possibility of a good day. Problematically, and typically, 23 minutes late out the door. The sound and sight of reds passing below raced my pump..go go go.

The day after Sunday, it was today, a low fog blanketed the earth and found a spot to lay between every tree, every blade. Every tiny gap between every misshaped brick. Beside every wall. Between my knees and ankles. Perhaps even between the non existent miniscule gap between my thighs. At first I thought, how nice...fog like cotton candy..and eerie. A somewhat beautiful haze. Pleased I couldn't taste it, I realized. At 27(ish) minutes and waiting, could the fog hinder my journey? Does this belong at my carnival?

Feet barely bendable, I already suffered and wondered.. barely protected. With shins like frozen celery sticks as a result of my morning laziness. A false security guided by the warmth of my bedroom...Roadside readiness.

First bus. Small and full. Perfect for a movie. A hush filled the air, sliced by the ferocious high pitched beeeeeep. Endless and anxiety inducing, palm sweat gathered, luckily soaked by the half black paws I wore. My head spun. Elementary aged didn't mind. Happily she stood with tails of pig, smiling with her nylon royal blue bag. Clenched. School. School. School. School.. whEEEEE....clinging to the pole of germ. Lucky for her, she was probably lower than the majority of filth. I obsessively put on anti-bac just incase.

A bit of everything and everyone aboard. Crowded. Lucky to get half a seat, I sat beside a large rough man who just didn't care about his overflow. Cemented boots and square. Unbewildered by his lack of attempting nOt to sit on a bus as he would his sofa at home, I passed a judgment of selfishness amongst other unmentionables upon him. I bet he wished I passed the popcorn.

The interesting a.m bus stop girl was on the bus again. Casually dressed with style. Pin striped, cropped jeans made her even thinner. Arriving to wait after I, enjoying the end of her fag. Dyed blond. Short, round, hard and wet looking helmet...it suited her. I looked curious,(and pheening). Where does she head this early in the morning? Unusually. Breaking the stereotype of early commuters..hmmmm.

From bus to train, through the short cut, which, for the record, I dOnt's actually think is any shorter- I waddled. I was reminded of why the pencil skirt (I have to say here that pencil was just mistyped as penis--yes, a penis skirt)had hung in my closet for so long. Like having a sequence of rubber bands from knees to waist, my stride was short but quick. How funny I must have looked. Maybe I am the penguin? -Another poor wardrobe choice. Pencil/penis skirt and missing leg warmers. Shoulders hunched, I had to delicately avoid the expected urban puke piles and mucus speckled pavement. This morning, an obstacle course in restraints.

At least I had the sage tea, which I desperately hoped would cool down sometime between then and the time the propellers landed me within the curriculum care-a-lot business.

My "wings" felt as if they were naked. Tank. L/S shirt. Nylon/polyester. Corduroy.Poor clothing choice number three. Oh, damn that backside scoop neck.- If I could fly, I would have lost the ability. If I could fly, I wouldn't bother with the tube or the bus, now that I think of it... Anyhow, I was covered along my spine and dorsal with freezer burn-like on that bag of frozen spinach ravioli yesterday. Speaking of, I realize, it's the ravioli's fault this pencil skirt was giving me more trouble today.. or was it the pizza's? I wouldn't have minded a hot pizza strapped to my upper back at that moment. I pondered,(and now salivate). I was desperately chilled like winter metal. I once stuck my tongue on winter metal, not recommended.

Refocusing, fortunately, the green line east arrived quickly. I got my usual seat and sat tensely time ticking and spINKing in a pretense, falsely past tense. No excitement to my notice. I recollected and began to thaw and regain partial feeling. Only to be repeatedly reminded of chill, with every stop along the way. Shocked and timidly turned to ice. Streetfighter II. Sega. Genesis.-It was warm then, and I didn't know about the true essence of the day after Sunday.

A girl sat. A fresh graduate with ankles of flesh in flats on display. Playing songs for tiny mice.. actually, she slept-sat. I bet dreaming of a warm place, a pair of wooley socks (ugh-just mistyped the first s with a c--what the heck?!), Estimated 19, Fairy Island fab and tired eyes like mine. I heard the chirps of her buds in her ear.-fast forward-talk-and walk...

Tube. Exit. Stairs? 26. Right and trot. Straight all the way.

More fog and hogs of pavement passers with pressures and thunder heels..EvEryone with the right of way.-Shoulders brushed-sideways walking. Human pinball? Street agility test? Not in a pencil skirt, thanks anyway. Even frustration didn't offer me heat.

First adults, then seagull students. Ugh-what a heinous bird I thought. A scavenger... scavengers at no fault of their own. Perhaps better than a marauder though? Eager for a Monday, yet complaining at the same time they jammed their throats with sugar abundance and formed a line of red rover. I was forced to black top shuffle it past the chatty bats..

Almost. Almost. Almost. Speared with an ice pick, my insides rattled. The single yellow flower within the concrete garden stole my double take. Almost. Almost. I had lost my nose along the way, no time for concern. Meeting in 3.

Through two sets of two doors under a half-circle protrusion I was released from the maze... a long deep breath and cold eyes, I sighed..

and my tea was cold.

Sunday 8 November 2009

on the way Sunday-Beauty in a butt crack

It was one of those mornings...the gray kind, upon eye opening, there was an inherent force and tightness in the room. Oh, ... to pry my eye.. Three more minutes of meaningful sleep between the snooze and the final call. A car alarm repeatedly knocked inside of my skull, without solace for the golden and seemingly life changing three minutes I deserved, the three minutes I was owed.

This, created the inner scream, adding to the immediate Sunday morning heaviness. Somewhat unwilling to admit, secretly, (not so much anymore), the alarm, my enemy helped thrust me out and into the start of a day's experience. With led legs and swollen eyes, like a baby dinosaur hatching from an egg in that childhood movie memory of mine, I stumbled, without the reptilian stretch.

Some short(ish) time later, after the expected morning duties (minus bed making), I found myself at bus stop 1. Bundled in the early briskness, layered for protection. With skin so thin, I began to see the beauty of this gray day-the brightness everyday passings had to offer and had yet to be discovered. Accompanied by the almost inescapable bus stop rage when collecting minutes without room in my pockets to keep them in, I noticed the street was glistening with morning moisture and everything was illuminated in contrast with the layered hues of the tenebrous clouds. Graffiti glowed and had evolved-overnight-the smell of fried chicken had dissipated and my tea was a perfect temperature. -A temperament, reawakened.

The central line east bound was a treat, empty as expected, only a handful on the move, silently, we sat s p a c e d out.

I shared my ride with him, a driver. A humble man. The new middle age. Hard working, hard of hearing and soft. Wrinkles of character, I stared at him kindly. Observing. Thinking I'd try to sketch him later.. trying to soak it all in. Off of work or on his way? A bus diver? Perhaps train? His eyes looked above, shiny deep brown marbles.. avoiding all other marbles. -The transit marble game, an unspoken rule of avoidance. He had a putty face, with signs of smiles and a forehead full of expression guided by his caterpillar brows. Thinning on top, black and back, his hair and heart sat calmly. Hands crossed, manicured, navy blue.-Uniformed. Accomplishment. Decidedly, he was heading home to rest. Modestly he sat with soles screaming the steps and tales unforgotten.. an obvious appreciation for his journeys.

The tube doors opened, we both sat still, opposites across, and glanced the same direction. A younger girl, heavy set, with low tight jeans, provoking a penguin walk, awkwardly held a poorly designed suit case. She made a move from the geometric crusty upholstery toward the world beyond. One eye on her, another on him, a moment shared...

The back of her jeans, guided by an unnecessary belt lowered as she stood and wobbled... and there we were, opposites both staring at her pale, half-mooned morning... butt crack. His marbles quickly darted away from the scene and landed upon mine. He knew, I knew, we saw. His putty face softened even more, possibly a bit embarrassed. Framed with deep crevices, he squinted. We shared a smile.

This wasn't just a smile.. it was an understanding. A conversation. A handshake and an acceptance. It only lasted seconds, but time seemed to stop with the oddity of unification over a butt crack. I giggled inside, and I still am.

I then decided that I must now definitely sketch the driver and I continued to attempt to discreetly observe. He was prickly from nose down, like sandpaper. The sandpaper met his double collar and loop of his lanyard with a small swoop of plush human fur in waves. His nose was braced with triangles leading to his cheeks. Clean and tired, determined and over-worked, he was- the driver.

I stared again at his shoes, significant threads like sea urchins-frayed, as we swayed..marbles like magnets-and another grin exchanged. Most welcomed with another squint and a nose wrinkle.

The doors opened-partnered, we exited, or entered?... the world outside-the extension of my apprehension-Sunday gray, still brightened. We crossed like pigeons in the walk and over the bridge, he found a red ticket on the ground. A tiny treasure. a pleasure. Apart, yet together, I celebrated with him..myself, unnoticed, we bounced opposites, as we had began.

Bust stop 2, waited and deliberated... which number was going to be my Lucky Leyton? Breath like minty smoke, a collection of coolness, my exhalation was warmed by the hot tea steam- Engines passed. I stood.

Roofs patterned perfect rectangles shone across the motorway. Red. Gray. Brown. Red. Gray. Brown.-Brown. Brown. Brown. Brown. Trimmed with what once was white. The red, so luminous, nearly a pink today...

Atypically again, the dinge had disappeared.

A milk truck, so mini, circled and delivered.-Transfixed, with a delivery daydream... I waited and whined in my chamber, silently. Numbers came and went, no big red for me.. for us.. not our bus. Wheels hissed to a stop. Loaded up and ready to roll, a man ran in desperation with a look of pain, for time, to make the doors...

I stood to fool the driver as if I wanted to board, digging a delay-for my pass...for the runner- made the finish line. With heavy breath and crescent eyes, he panted a murmur of "thanks."

Satisfied and soon to be surprised, I turned around, greeted by the laughter of four unknowns who observed my antics.. they commented and warmed the air.. I shrugged, replied, "Eh.. we all need a bit of help sometimes."

Our lucky Leyton, #158 finally arrived and we pattered on... another journey, individually, together. This time, a stop and go with a decorated march in between.