(no subject)
Understanding
Clickity clack, clickity clack went the train dashing further and further ahead at speeds unknown to human feet. I gazed out the window at the ever expansive landscape which included near barren trees, foolishly holding onto brown dry leaves, on rolling hills which were a body of water, known as the Hudson river, which included pcb infested fish which would make you as sick as I the narrator, but sick in a much different sense (and no I will not divulge!) The electric wires were stuck doing a monotonous limbo, up and down up and down, looking like a snake of endless proportions. Needless to say the scenery was repetitive, but my eyes needed a break from the infinitely phrenic poetry of William Carlos Williams. My mind and palette were being assaulted with images of juicy succulent plums begging to be consumed by my greedy gullet. Needless to say, the plums were quite elusive.
The window made me feel utterly disconnected with my surroundings and I began to think of the most beautiful legs I’d ever seen and now I longed to be sitting in English hoping the girl in the short skirt would appear to smoke her awful cigarette and cross those smooth gorgeous legs, expanding ever upward, resembling pink ivory, no doubt in part from the frigid weather. They were so vivid in my mind, on display for I and I alone. I'm ashamed to quote Bukowski but she had the most beautiful legs in town. They were endless! But, as she’d reach the filter she'd toss the butt, uncross those enticing legs and walk off to somewhere that couldn’t have existed, for it was not near my eyes.
The train starting to jerk, squeak and moan and then it stopped. The enchanting landscape along with my thoughts of perversion came to halt and my eyes met with what seemed like hundreds of people waiting to get onto the train. I took my rather cumbersome jacket and laid it across the seat closest to me in hopes of deferring anyone audacious enough to sit next to me, though I suppose it took less audacity than I thought because a man around the age of 70 asked in broken English;
"Is taken?"
I panicked and was about to say no when the conductor blurted out anyone traveling alone would have to double up. I sadly shook my head and moved my coat. He appeared intelligent (as if looks could tell) and I hoped for stimulating conversation about anything, except politics or some absurd notion, such as T.S. Eliot being the greatest and only true poet there ever was. It's happened before and damned if happens again! He looked over at me and said hi and returned the civility, but soon realized his English was as limited as my notions on math or physics, that is to say, practically non-existent. I read a poem to myself, but couldn't concentrate. My thoughts were stuck on how the ride could get any worse and I thought of many ways: derailment, gunmen, coffee poisoning, unknowingly being dead, but this wasn't getting me anywhere, that was the trains job!
The old man seemed just as disappointed as me and would look over and sigh, knowing language was barrier. I was ashamed for not knowing what he spoke, and his eyes told me something similar. Tapping him on the shoulder I pointed out the window and scribbled a heart on the pad, and pointed back out the window. He smiled and nodded. We placed are hands under our chins and fixed our gazes out into the repetition and for the rest of the train ride, understood more about each other than words could ever get across. The hills held onto the trees and the trees held the leaves futilely, the river remained polluted, as did the fish, and the wire kept up its sing-song path. Though I don’t know what the old man was thinking, I know if he had seen those legs, our thoughts wouldn’t have been far apart.
Clickity clack, clickity clack went the train dashing further and further ahead at speeds unknown to human feet. I gazed out the window at the ever expansive landscape which included near barren trees, foolishly holding onto brown dry leaves, on rolling hills which were a body of water, known as the Hudson river, which included pcb infested fish which would make you as sick as I the narrator, but sick in a much different sense (and no I will not divulge!) The electric wires were stuck doing a monotonous limbo, up and down up and down, looking like a snake of endless proportions. Needless to say the scenery was repetitive, but my eyes needed a break from the infinitely phrenic poetry of William Carlos Williams. My mind and palette were being assaulted with images of juicy succulent plums begging to be consumed by my greedy gullet. Needless to say, the plums were quite elusive.
The window made me feel utterly disconnected with my surroundings and I began to think of the most beautiful legs I’d ever seen and now I longed to be sitting in English hoping the girl in the short skirt would appear to smoke her awful cigarette and cross those smooth gorgeous legs, expanding ever upward, resembling pink ivory, no doubt in part from the frigid weather. They were so vivid in my mind, on display for I and I alone. I'm ashamed to quote Bukowski but she had the most beautiful legs in town. They were endless! But, as she’d reach the filter she'd toss the butt, uncross those enticing legs and walk off to somewhere that couldn’t have existed, for it was not near my eyes.
The train starting to jerk, squeak and moan and then it stopped. The enchanting landscape along with my thoughts of perversion came to halt and my eyes met with what seemed like hundreds of people waiting to get onto the train. I took my rather cumbersome jacket and laid it across the seat closest to me in hopes of deferring anyone audacious enough to sit next to me, though I suppose it took less audacity than I thought because a man around the age of 70 asked in broken English;
"Is taken?"
I panicked and was about to say no when the conductor blurted out anyone traveling alone would have to double up. I sadly shook my head and moved my coat. He appeared intelligent (as if looks could tell) and I hoped for stimulating conversation about anything, except politics or some absurd notion, such as T.S. Eliot being the greatest and only true poet there ever was. It's happened before and damned if happens again! He looked over at me and said hi and returned the civility, but soon realized his English was as limited as my notions on math or physics, that is to say, practically non-existent. I read a poem to myself, but couldn't concentrate. My thoughts were stuck on how the ride could get any worse and I thought of many ways: derailment, gunmen, coffee poisoning, unknowingly being dead, but this wasn't getting me anywhere, that was the trains job!
The old man seemed just as disappointed as me and would look over and sigh, knowing language was barrier. I was ashamed for not knowing what he spoke, and his eyes told me something similar. Tapping him on the shoulder I pointed out the window and scribbled a heart on the pad, and pointed back out the window. He smiled and nodded. We placed are hands under our chins and fixed our gazes out into the repetition and for the rest of the train ride, understood more about each other than words could ever get across. The hills held onto the trees and the trees held the leaves futilely, the river remained polluted, as did the fish, and the wire kept up its sing-song path. Though I don’t know what the old man was thinking, I know if he had seen those legs, our thoughts wouldn’t have been far apart.