life times & love

Bus Ride

I watch them stand around and wait for the same thing I am. We just act like we’re not connected in any way since in the end we’re all going to different places. I am going to zone eight, the man across from me is either going to zone five or three the way he’s making himself comfortable with his newspaper and briefcase snug in the seat next to him. The man in front of me is probably going farther than me since he leaned his chair back until it hit my knees. He looked back, glared at me thinking why I chose this seat when there are about twenty empty ones. I just look back at him and smile; it’s my own way of getting back at society. Choosing a seat right behind someone so they can’t manipulate the amount of comfort the bus company is supposed to give you.

We end our conflict politely, with silence and a quick movement back into the nook of our seats. When the bus pulls out of the lot, people get into position, they have their routine packed down.

Get on the bus, look really tired and bothered about the day and put something in the aisle seat, another person will walk by, taking the hint that this person wants to be alone. Then wait, wait till everyone else gets on, you only get to stare at one person as they sit down, only one or you’re breaking the rules. Then when everyone is seated and the bus pulls out, and through the tunnel leading back into Jersey close your eyes. Pretend to sleep or pray or read the newspaper’s sports section. It makes you look well rounded.

But of course I don’t do that. When I wait, I glance at them smile and keep listening to whatever is on shuffle. I try to text or write something down to keep it in my mind, and tell my aunt that hey I’m taking the 4:28 bus home today. But there’s gonna be traffic because of the crumby weather. I put my things on the ground that hasn’t been cleaned since last September, and my shoulder leans on the murky glass. Once on the bus, after I handed him the twenty for a roundtrip and again forgot to get my change I pick a seat on the left side so I can see the city. Always the second set behind the handicap door. I stare at everyone, well it’s not really staring but I give everyone a good look, to lodge the small things that I notice in a jar.

The way that man reminds me of a school professor, or how sadly the small man sadly reminds me of Jackie Chan, or how the man took a good gander at my breasts as he walked past and gave a satisfying mouth gesture. My favorite was the young guy, who looked like he was going home from school just like me. He had on a hand-me-down beanie, with an old Bob Dylan-esque leather jacket, and a rotten obese messenger bag that had patches of the Who, and the Strokes. I perked up immediately for him to notice, but he just smiled at me, noticing the same student qualities as he had, and smiled catching his seat a few down then diagonal of me.

Once the ride gets out on route three it gets boring. The business men poke their heads in books and blackberries, and the bus driver goes in silence. Everyday there’s always something jingling and no one seems to care. Whenever the bus goes over a bump it makes a ring like a service bell, but no heads move to catch the mouse out of its hole. Except for me, I try to see its tail, but it’s too sly and quick for me to catch it running back home.

The bus still rambles us on down the highway forty minutes later, knocking everyone out; the smooth pulsation making person by person dive into a muted sleep. I fight it, staring out the window watching the pattern of trees and stores pass by. I know it by heart; it goes house, house, house, house light pole, house, house, light pole, highway exit, overpass, Stop and Shop, then wait. More traffic.

I can’t fight the sleep much longer; my body is getting too comfortable in the warmth and the vague softness of the chair.

When I wake from the clank of the railroad track, it’s dark. The sun had set and now I knew I was almost home. I called for my ride, and slipped my coat back on, and wiped of the dry drool from my mouth. I rang the button at the stoplight before I get off. The bus driver stopped, and I walked down the aisle, swishing around so my bag doesn’t hit anything.

This is the first time I get a good look at the driver. He had dark hair, and eyes. A light tan on his face made me think that he was just in his thirties. If he stood up though he’d only be a few inches taller than me. The last thing I noticed was no wedding ring, but just a gold and black watch on his right arm. After I observed him, I said the usual thank you for suffering through this tedious drive all the way out here to the boonies, just to do it all over again, and stepped off the bus and on my way home.

I am the lover of uncontained and immortal beauty.

Ghandi, originally uploaded by mywildthing.

another photo i took today.

., originally uploaded by mywildthing.

february '10

DSC_0510 - Copy, originally uploaded by mywildthing.

december '09

they still have their old bathing suits on

blue with lines wrapping around their waists

and ankles that fade from the touch of the ocean

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they sleep on the boardwalk,

near the freakshow where they comfort

the Cyclops human and his misshapen family

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the ghosts of coney island hide in the winter

they sunbathe while no one is looking

and tan their toes under the grey clouds

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the wind whispers around their ears

twisting their hair around the barbwire

and plastic bags stuck on the top of trees

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it doesn’t bother them,

since they are simple folk

remembering the time of 1927

when they screamed at the top of their lungs

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getting closer to the sky than they ever have before.

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the ghosts of coney island dance in the dark,

while the neighborhood lights glow

and the sea lions next door honk an appalling tune

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and they dip their sweethearts near the ground

sweeping them back into their arms

while tip toeing back down the boardwalk