The limbo between delta and omicron

I am not a student of the Greek language. I know naught. That said, there are letters between ‘d’ and ‘o’, a whole heap of them, and that is my cause of concern. I like to be rigorous – do I ever! – and I want all ships to stay afloat, and so I ask why now?

What is this flurry of new fear? Must I triple down? Must I wedge myself into a safe haven and curse out more heathens? When is the reprieve? Or is this on repeat? A religious bit that we are acting out for some multinational experiment? An old man talking to himself, a gay fellow in a fur coat, a fat couple salivating at Costco’s gates, a little dead dog, all of that. Nothing decent anyway.

That is certainly how it feels, Zuckerberg at the till, never getting off this planet and sinking into the murk. Why now? Why us? Tbd. 

The Approximation of Something

It’s his foot. It’s not just his foot. It’s his intention. He sees me running to catch the subway. I’m going to miss it. But he swings his foot out, a big construction boot, and blocks the doors. The conductor repeatedly tries to close them, but the boot is there. And I am on.

He’s a small Latino guy, a brown construction helmet hanging from his backpack along with a level almost his height. I thank him but he says nothing. He seems indifferent. But he isn’t. I know that. He goes back to quietly talking to his friend as the train leaves the station.

The Morning Commute

Your pants don’t match your jacket. And there’s something wrong with your shoes. Don’t look at me that way, you damn honky shit. I don’t have to put up with your shit. I ain’t your nigger. I ain’t my grandmother slaving for you in Brazil, you ugly motherfucker.

You chose the wrong bitch to fuck with, you know that? You got a death wish or something, fucking with me? You got satan in your head. No way I would ever fuck your disgusting white ass. Your little baby dick ain’t nothing. Just try swinging that thing beside a nigger or spick dick. And you know I wouldn’t let any of those dicks cum on my face.

You think I’m going to let you give me your slavery bullshit? You fucking with the wrong nigger, you bitch ass bitch. You going to fuck with me, I’m going fuck you up dead. You hear what I’m saying, you satan fuck ass-white bitch? I’m going to fuck you up bad.*

*The reply to me asking someone to put their mask on in the subway at 6:15 am.

The Last Word…Goddamn It!

I hear what you’re saying. I do. I honestly understand. But here’s the thing. You need to listen to me. Just listen. And don’t say anything back. Okay? Are you listening? Good. The Last Word...Goddamn It!The first thing is that I appreciate you trying to reach out, but you need to respect my personal space. And spare me the guise of thanking me for making the effort. It just doesn’t ring true. I am not interested in a phony relationship without attempting to solve our real problems. The Last Word...Goddamn It!It is my belief that you and I can’t solve our issues alone. It isn’t a matter of perception; it’s just straight-forward reasoning. It’s too painful to interact with you in a deep way. You cause me nothing but pain.The Last Word...Goddamn It!You said it yourself. You don’t trust me and therefore cannot open up. And so, by your own admission, your suggestion is doomed to failure, right? The Last Word...Goddamn It!And if you don’t like what I have to say, don’t ever call or email me again! Don’t worry, I won’t contact you first.

Tired on the Train

She opened the book and considered the page. IMAG3779She had forgotten where she was, what paragraph, what had happened. She let her hand drift down the worn paper, dragging the bookmark in a long slow slide. She bent the bookmark forward and looked down the glossy edge, an old ticket, from the McCartney concert at Yankees Stadium. paulmccartneypopThey had sat at the side of the stage, seeing McCartney’s profile as he moved back and forth. It was amazing how young he acted and all of those great songs. And Crystal had almost looked happy, relaxed in the evening light, the arc of the thousands of people going up gently away into the sky. She didn’t drink that night. Nothing. That was the year she had died.IMAG2402She turned the ticket over, slid it back into the book, and held her finger, the black nail polish poking out, the end of it. She hung on to that and stared at her shoes and then across the train at her dark reflection in the window, the tunnel moving past, and saw the man staring back, his expression almost angry, chin burrowed in his scarf. Sex. It was always that. IMAG3354The train slowed. It was time to get off.