It's late in the morning, the train is sparsely populated.I have on my green T-shirt.
There's a man looks like George Clinton next to me eating a frozen blue strip of water in plastic; sweet, unnatural.
Somebody's dry cleaning is swinging on the overhead handrail.
Late risers, tourists, ne'er-do-wells.
The floor is sticky.
I'm wearing my Chacos to work today.
George Clinton has a Kangol hat on with a faux panther tail coming out of the crown and Mardi Gras beads, long rings of beads.
Two women with babies just got on the train, one in a buggy, one strapped to her front. The woman reading the PC World magazine put it down to look at the baby strapped to the woman's front.
George Clinton is eating a red frozen sticky thing now.
I've got on my black pants, they collect lint like crazy.
A young couple sat behind me, the man put his arm around the lady and touched my arm. "Pardon me, sir," he said, very considerately.
The rails are screaming as the train turns a big corner.
The conductor is announcing the upcoming street, the next stop, the trains we can transfer to.
We stop, he repeats, says, "Stand clear of the closing doors."
The man in front of me looks slackerish, if that is even a word.
People are shuffling around each other.
"We're being held in the station; we expect to be moving shortly."
I took a boat ride around Manhattan last night.
The woman behind me said a little too loud, "Stop talking in my fucking ear!" Does she want him to fuck her?
Everybody seems so young or so old. I'm right in the dead center, everbody's older or younger. Younger mostly, I guess. I can't help the way I feel. I don't feel sorry.
George Clinton is eating a frozen green thing now, artificial lime color, the same color as my shirt. I surprised myself by buying this shirt. This color. My pants are black, that's acceptable in this city.
Blue lights, single, and strips of white lights are passing by my window.
I felt cramped in my seat and moved to the outside one. My knee touched the slacker guy's leg. Just in time; a woman wanted to sit next to me and I let her in instead of having to squeeze against the window.
I haven't even taken out my iPod so far this trip.
There's a black man in a white suit looking sharp, standing where the dry cleaning was hanging before, as if he manifested out of the dry cleaning.
I haven't looked up much, just briefly.
I'm going to 42nd Street and then I take the 7 train over to Grand Central and walk the rest of the way.
My sandals are sticking to the floor.
I got off the boat at 11:30 last night and got home at 2:00 a.m. I walked across town because it was a lovely night and then up to 42nd, stopped at Penn Station and Port Authority (for research).
There's an infant behind me singing a little dittie: a-doo-ee-doo-ee-doo, a-doo-ee-doo-ee-doo, ahhh; a-doo-ee-doo-ee-doo, a-doo-ee-doo-ee-doo, ahhh...
There was a long wait for the A train going uptown last night. An hour or so. And then we got kicked off at 168th Street and had to wait a bit longer. I didn't drink too much, just a couple of margaritas. It wasn't really my kind of a party, the boat, but I made the best I could out of it...for me.
There was a man singing Motown hits on the 42nd Street subway platform. People were hot and tired and drunk, but sang along anyway. It's hard not to sing along: Honey, youuuu send me...honey, youuuuu send me...honest you do, honest you do, honest you do.
The infant is learning "Twinkle, Twinkle Little Star."
There was a thin young man in rectangle framed glasses, navy blue shirt, faded black jeans, worn out black cowboy boots. He had brown hair, not much beard growth, beauty marks like a constellation on his jawline. Not freckles and not moles. He captured my attention. Something to do while we waited for the train. I could have been cruising the Port Authority toilets (for research) but that wouldn't have made me feel very good.
I took a dump at Penn Station and read my tattoo: Compassion. I said to myself, "That's for you."
59th Street Columbus Circle.
The young man only glanced at me once or twice but he wasn't offended (it didn't seem) that I was "observing" him (for research).
Too much of this or too little of that. That's where I'm at in life. Being myself seems a conundrum. My physical self looks/acts one way, my heart/soul another.
The slacker and I are touching knees, {??can't read my writing} along the track to 42nd Street.
