"you dance how i feel"--travis millar
going home on christmas i was snug fit in a travelin bus, which is different from a metro's busway. firstly, the chairs are cushioned, so that they have a better grip on lice. secondly, the travelin be long. that means if it is a packed bus, the company you have is what you keep for at least an hour. say this docile-looking fellow from the sticks (docile in that he only murders in secret, so don't cross him if you don't want something phallic in your lifeless body, and oh, i hope you like cellars) is stuck next to you so that you can't escape unless you throw yourself through the window (even though you throw like a girl, and that it would be embarrassing to throw yourself out the window like a girl in public. so maybe settling for postmortem violation is more bearable). it wasn't so much the murderous aspect that bothered me, but that he smelled like dried urine. and it wasn't like he just peed unto himself, but like he purposely coated himself with a thin layer of it like a superstition. it smelled old like it was a way of life. like he saw the light and accepted urine into his heart, which pumped it through his pores and baked in the day's day. thank god i have a habit of snoring, because right now he's probably complaining about how i snore like a whale oinking like a pig. he moved as soon as he could. it's part of his culture to be offended by sounds. it disturbs the urine dressed in his ear.
the way i go to work is usually this aimless meandering that hopes to clock in on time. i could visit a friend or loved one, get lost, or satisfy a food craving. the last one was a sudden urge to have spaghetti and meatballs in my mouth. so i took a turn and ordered a plate at this place. it took a long time, but it was so good i told the guy how gestavely glorious it was, and i made it to work with enough time to stop for an espresso. was that good? you bet your pancakes.
but whenever i do go straight to work, at the right time, on the straight and narrow, i turn a corner where there is a salon in this crummy-looking intersection, and at that corner, a certain young old man is there. he is on his smoking break eyeing me, baldly, and in a fitted shirtly. he looks like he'd be on a bravo show. he doesn't mind being underdressed for the weather, because he seems to only have me on his mind. when i walk by at other times, the guy isn't there. instead there is a blue question mark graffiti'd on the wall. i wonder if the person before me did that. he knows other people know, and he wonders the same thing. where is bravo man?
i take one long trainride up, and am able to see the neighborhood change through the people who board on and off. it is great, because if i am sitting, the bench that is facing me is a frame for portraits who take turns displaying themselves for me. everyone has the worn out face to which both an artist and a doctor would say "you've got something going on over there, on that face of yours." sometimes a song would appear in my headphones that would compliment a face. or when i'm standing, everyone in the car is on the verge of well meant choreography. i imagine a beetlejuice scene where dawn penn's "no no no" comes on, and everyone starts doing a skittish bone dance. or portishead's wandering star becomes the metronome of the universe and a leggy flock of business women sashays across midtown, all for my eyes and ears.
the collision of sensations make these moments, and it's all unannounced. they're one of the few little drop-by's that i approve. just don't smell funny or i will snore.
the way i go to work is usually this aimless meandering that hopes to clock in on time. i could visit a friend or loved one, get lost, or satisfy a food craving. the last one was a sudden urge to have spaghetti and meatballs in my mouth. so i took a turn and ordered a plate at this place. it took a long time, but it was so good i told the guy how gestavely glorious it was, and i made it to work with enough time to stop for an espresso. was that good? you bet your pancakes.
but whenever i do go straight to work, at the right time, on the straight and narrow, i turn a corner where there is a salon in this crummy-looking intersection, and at that corner, a certain young old man is there. he is on his smoking break eyeing me, baldly, and in a fitted shirtly. he looks like he'd be on a bravo show. he doesn't mind being underdressed for the weather, because he seems to only have me on his mind. when i walk by at other times, the guy isn't there. instead there is a blue question mark graffiti'd on the wall. i wonder if the person before me did that. he knows other people know, and he wonders the same thing. where is bravo man?
i take one long trainride up, and am able to see the neighborhood change through the people who board on and off. it is great, because if i am sitting, the bench that is facing me is a frame for portraits who take turns displaying themselves for me. everyone has the worn out face to which both an artist and a doctor would say "you've got something going on over there, on that face of yours." sometimes a song would appear in my headphones that would compliment a face. or when i'm standing, everyone in the car is on the verge of well meant choreography. i imagine a beetlejuice scene where dawn penn's "no no no" comes on, and everyone starts doing a skittish bone dance. or portishead's wandering star becomes the metronome of the universe and a leggy flock of business women sashays across midtown, all for my eyes and ears.
the collision of sensations make these moments, and it's all unannounced. they're one of the few little drop-by's that i approve. just don't smell funny or i will snore.