scribbled on a napkin, Newark Penn Station 8/1/2008:
God, these days are long and lolling. I have a cancer just skin deep, not quite in remission, but not willing to kill me either. The only consolation to this summer heat, are the subway’s dirty knave children on their white bucket drums. I’m waiting at the terminal [I wish this was terminal] at the bar sipping a little Sodom and Gomorrah through two thin red straws. Bring a little sunshine to my veins. Bring a little heat to my cheeks. I’m still wearing my sunglasses, indoors, because my future’s so bright.
The man next to me is on the phone with “Lise.” They’re going to bring the deviled eggs tomorrow and if there’s anything else, “Lise” can let them know. I thought at that moment I could smell eggs, their manipulated yokes spiced and smeared against the cellophane, scent escaped and spoiled in my nostrils. I dislike the way you write lately- so crude and tactless. Can we leave his asshole out of this?
I check the schedule, its letters and numbers flick-flick-flick-flick like a timpani staccato against the church garble. I stuff the last of my bagel in my mouth, wash it down with warm bitters, grab my bags and make my way to the platform. And on this platform, dear friends, I do my ditty. On trains heading North.