5:53 Train Ride

5:53 train ride

Blue, vast, cloudless sky, blushing red with the dawn of dusk. A rickety silver snake curved through the wrinkles lining Mother E’s face. We bypassed her dusty brown bloodlines, gazed blankly at billboards that clogged pores of her skin.  Sunk sometimes, inside her misshapen rock rich veins. My Ipod had met her maker an hour ago, abandoning my ride, me in my hour (and a ½ )of need.  I could not slip beneath the watery surface of the music’s comfort and distortion.  Had to listen to the droning of a man cooing comforts to his wife about his arrival to Wyandanch.

Sunlight’s glare showed windows tinted with dirt, liver spots of age staining the old snake’s cheeks. I was bored, so extremely bored when I saw him.  He stood tall on the top of an unmarked brick building.  Dusk’s copious powder soaked up his color, reduced him to a pair of pitch black limbs. Left hand on his heart, lone black limbs watched the trains beneath him, feet fingering the edge.  Feet so close to the edge, feet off the edge?

My heart stopped. I felt paralyzed.  Gone, even before my muscles clenched to stand.  Gone!  Get up! Why aren’t you getting up? Pointless.  You’re mistaken, you miss-saw. And if he was…if he had, you couldn’t have saved him.  You were in a moving train far from any discernible station.

The denizens of the 5:53 didn’t stir.  I was livid, silently hysterical with my horror.  How my teeth craved for the sweet distraction of ear-buds, phones, newspapers.  I wanted to taste the sickening meld of wires and plastic as headphones drifted too close to a man’s mouth. Wanted to taste the dry salty chew of a woman deeply devouring her newspaper. Every row had a sweet, every row had a cavity.

So nobody saw him. I shouldn’t have seen him.

I should have missed that living statute who thought, nobody would see.

5:53 Train Ride

The Red Door

The Red Door:

There is a red door in our neighborhood. No one opens it because no one is there.

It stands stark and odd against the white house it’s affixed to, like a cardinal sitting in a snow storm. I knew a girl whose life died there once, whose dreams and schemes stayed behind that door when her mother passed and she moved to Brooklyn.

By some anti-divinity’s wishes, the house remains unsold. It seems cursed, haunted even. Maybe it’s not there at all.

The red door has never needed a second coat of paint. It never prunes, never withers, doesn’t sag; just lays flush, fluid, and smooth against the house frame like the immaculate skin of a young fresh fruit.

The girl who lived there had eyes like rubies and a diction riddled with holes that education couldn’t fill. But she stood in that vermilion doorway, and we used to talk.

Her phrases fed me like food, and before I met her, I didn’t know I was starving.

I could feel my teeth sinking into the crunchy, crisp skin of her colorful words.

I tasted it, that fresh, filling, feeling, of fulfillment, and friendship.

The snap of that sever, like biting into a bitter apple, when the first piece came flying free into my mouth, and it was best to swallow  and never bite again reminded me of that shiny, red door.

It held a terrible kind of knowledge.

If I opened it, would I find sweet meat?

Or a barren core?

The Scene

Image

The scene:

The iron snake spills on the scene

Creaks in the happening

Boogies side to side as it

Gyrates to its own pop pop beat!

Lights in a sky without stars

Dazzle the eyes of the entourage

Laymen lie sly with men girls

Whose suits and ties fit the nine to five flow

Caring not for the old school move groove

Just along for the ride