Train Tracks On My Mind

You’re a blank page and I am a jammed pen.

Every morning I wake up with possibilities and minutes visualized in seconds telling me there’s time to conquer the world. Then my brain freezes. So many thoughts get caught in a traffic jam on the platform of my imagination and I stop. Moving. Time slows. I stare into an abyss of darkened windows and closed doors and I cry into the future I cannot see. Yet. No tears, just bewilderment. Joy in the beauty of spontaneity.
My mind is full of locomotive trains pulling thoughts instead of cargo,
Fumes building into my collective subconscious until the day’s reached it’s end, and I can breathe.

Some weeks take a really long time to reach Friday.


The Subway

A mother daughter duo of mutual snobbery practice general yuppyism.
The mother turns her head aside while the daughter points her gaze downward
into her mother's palms, where the New York Times appears to be held for her perusal; it isnt.
She's merely holding the paper in a sense of lofty apathy so as not to stain her fingertips with its ink.
The mother wears fake pearls, rustic, perhaps made of wood.

They don't interact, retaining their gazes in the opposite direction of each others.

People wear dresses without smiles.
Glasses without swagger.
Pearls without grace.

New York at 9am without a caffeine injection.

Solitude As masturbation

Drops of crystal cut
out of silk sashes.
Love in a fabric's movements.