It is Hard

At the end of the day it is hard to drag the pen along the page.
I stole a donated book from work today. I liked the author, I
hadn't read the book, and I wanted it.
Let's just say it was donated to me.
I checked out a dozen CDs so I could take them home, listen
to 3, and stare at the other nine.
I checked out a short story because it was short. Ha! Gotcha.
I've got several weeks to put off reading it.
I walked to the bus stop while listening to a friend's rap music. It totally
changes the way I walk. I feel slightly tougher. But it didn't stop
me from nodding to an older gentleman leaning on a cane.
When I got on my bus
I took out the short story and read 2 pages before putting it
back in my purse.
In the crack of the window, there was a dead moth lying. . . dead.
Of course.
I stopped what I was doing, which was nothing, and stared. I stared
for awhile, until I couldn't bare the simple gruesome image any longer. I did sneak a glance a few more times.
I had to write it down. It was paper worthy. I have to say though, the dead moth made me tired
because it looked so tired and . . . dead. Of course. And because it was the end of the day.
And it is hard to drag this pen along the page.

Ringlets

I am sitting behind a woman on the bus.
I am aching to finger this woman's ringlets.
They hang off the back of her head
in a black glossy ponytail,
about forty of them.
They are begging to be pulled straight
and then released.
I am thinking and behaving like a small boy
I am contemplating reaching upward and
"accidentally" brushing my finger tip
down one.
I can manage to distract myself, if only
for a moment.
I can look out the window, up at smokey clouds,
past the ponytail, but to no avail.
I am nervous and my hands tingle
I am damn close to pulling the cord and getting off
eight blocks before my stop.

Tour dis Grace

It's too cold to sit outside Target
and wait on the bus.
That's why I'm sitting inside
watching people nosh before noon.
A mother buys her toddler a
cookie, an elderly couple eats
salted buttered pretzals
A young woman walkes in w/o
a purse and immediately our
story takes a turn for the worst.
Immediately, I feel uncomfortable
for her.
Because there is nothing lonelier
than a purseless woman.
Has she nothing to carry but her
plain soul?
Let's try and distract ourselves from
the pretty face and unfortunate body
That will be the last sexist thing
I write.
You're wondering how will I
warm enough to write about the
human experience today?
I want to sit inside and wait for
the bus.

N. Street

I walked a concrete catwalk
taking in the dragonflies that passed
by. I tried not to flinch.
I was barefooted and it was hot.
Had I more callouses I wouldn't have
felt how glorious the ground was.
I count small miracles as I carry
perfectly fine shoes. How can anything
ever be "perfectly" and "fine" at
the same time?
I carried fine shoes in my right
hand, hooked on two fingers.
Whenever I can, I take them off
and those creepy dragonflies in
without flinching at the warm
rocks I step on or the long stained
glass wings. Have you ever seen
a more perfectly primeval fly?
I have not.

Three Different Black Females are on This Bus

Three different black females
are on this bus
loud ones walk straight to the back
they cuss because they can
they cackle and make threats
they're bustin' out
of their stylish clothes
they stare unabashedly and
they don't give a fuck what
that motherfuckin' cracker
in the front
thinks about them
they pop gum
they hold credit cards
they rolled necks
they point fingers
they shout to be
heard.

Young ones have no chance
they get on last
they sit in the middle
they are quiet yet anything but demure
their hair is a state of unfinished:
tight gelled cornrows that turn into puff balls
they wear tight jeans
with tight belts
and tight denim shrugs
the kind called boleros elsewhere
they don't know that
they've got pink cellphones
they text like desperate rats
they glance back at the loud ones
they admire unabashedly


I live in fear and awe
of the loud ones behind me
and I fear for and cringe
at the young ones ahead
I'm like neither of them
and I feel worst for it
I'm not angry enough to cuss
I'm not popular enough to text
Between the two, I am not solid.
I stand on a peat bog society
ready to crumble any moment
I wear faded jeans not because they're cool
I wear old Chucks, there's a hole on the side.
I watch unabashedly and
I record what
I can't be

Arkansas Clay

I watched a girl on the bus
she had legs of burnt sienna
covered at the thighs
with a denim skirt

she did not know how to sit in it
and I watched
brown thighs splay open
she pressed her face to her phone

I watched a white man
he had transfer stub in hand
an Aldi’s bag
beside his lap

he did not look at the girl once
and I watched
For ten minutes
his eyes were dead ahead
he clutched his ticket

She was an ignorant girl
taught nothing about
society, sex, or dress
He was an extremely steadfast friar man
watching the streets
I tried to watch

I watched the knobby knees
the color of Arkansas clay
knock open and close and smiled
how beautiful it is
to flaunt a mystery

I Got

I got a toe cramp
I got what feels like a broken heart
I got no plans, no friends, no thoughts about the subject at hand.
I got twelve minutes till the bus comes
I got six fellow human beings to wait with
I got issues with the weather
I got music falling in my face
I got no shades to stop the assault
I got shoes in my bag to change into
I got no energy to retrieve them
I got a boy staring at me
I got a bored look to give him
I got a breeze brushing my cheek
I got empty pockets
I got no baby, no love, no lover
I got little self control, a lopsided smile, a couple jokes
I got lies, a few tales, an attitude problem
I got rights that I refuse to use
I got baggage to claim, but won't get around to
I got four minutes till the bus collects me
I got a thought now
I got a thought that's bigger than myself
I got to dance as soon as my toe cramp subsides
I got urges, bi-lingual passions, industrious plans
I got no harbored fugitives, no formidable skills
I got inaccessible energies
I got mild anxiety
I got a wounded heart, maybe not broken, maybe sprained
I got no heart
I got a stubborn lion in my pocket
I got bad references
I got pressure, some motion sickness from being still
I got life, but little left
I got a bus to catch

My bus driver got the Safe Driving Award in 2006.

What the hell happened in 2007? He no doubt tried to parallel park under the influence. He hit a small Pomerania or some other hard to spell or hard to manage canine. He didn’t know what to do with the carcass. This is not surprising. This man was clearly not trained for covering up crimes. It was a wild year, that 2007. He no doubt damaged of dented or dinged a small child’s wheelchair. He apologized and made nice, but the strain was already caused. Do you know how much those motorized scooters cost? It’s 2008 now, good things are bound to happen. 2007 was just a wild year.

Roman Ride

When he’s there, she sits and watches the man who drives our bus with a look of passion in her eyes, that suggests his hands don’t merely turn a wheel, but paint classics more stunning than Botticelli’s. I roll my eyes. She talks like a bird eats: quick suspicious movements, bobbing of the head, and staccato conversation. He looks in the mirror and smiles behind sunglasses. I roll my eyes. I wonder if he’ll get into a wreck because he can’t talk to her and drive at the same time. His constant hitting of the breaks, mimics what it might be like for the two of them to have sex: awkward and full of unnecessary stops. She laughs at something he says. High pitched and shrill. I roll my eyes. The entire bus is here to witness this intimate union every time he stops to speak. Our bodies lurch forward and back in keeping up with his jerking thrusts. I did not ask to be apart of this orgy. Stop go, stop go, stop go, stop go, stop go, stop go, stop go.
I roll my eyes.

I get sick

When Im on the Pink-D.
I sit behind a man who wears what looks like an army flack jacket
With six earrings on the outer shell of his ear.
The flesh there is unlike the other ear. It's shiny and swollen.
I keep looking back to it. For it's a beacon that beckons me to
It's rocky shores. I get sick.
I look out the window and wonder what that ear is doing.
Looking like it needs a splash of disinfectant.
The rocking, the lulling, of the Pink-D unsettles my stomach
And I am lost at sea.
But that shining shell of an ear is the lighthouse tonight.
I'm going to look at it.
I'm going to throw up.
But's it's going to take me home.

no chance

a couple of mormon girls spotted me at the bus stop this morning
matching denim skirts and tightly pinned buns
I had no chance
I was waiting (listening to secular music) for the bus
"Are you interested in reading the book of Mormon?"
No.
"In these confusing times, we need something to depend on."
Yes, we do. I keep one eye on them and another on an approaching bus.
"God loves you, and with the book of Mormon, you'll learn all about his love."
I want to be loved, but i've got to catch a bus. Can they hear my dirty, naughty, secular music?
"We have a pamphlet for you to read, it's very helpful."
I'm not interested, i don't want buns of denim skirts. i'm getting anxious.
"God loves you."
I need saving (right now). My eyes look like those of a rabbit's. Marvin Gaye is now singing about "gettin' it on." shit. Shit. SHIT.

The People on the Bus. . .

In the quiet, she only has the bus
driver and ‘ol Baba O’Reilly to
keep her company. Both, she’s
terribly dependent on. In the
reflection of the windows she
sees herself [out of the corner
of her eye] scrawling out life in
a tatter edged notebook. To no
one in particular, maybe Baba,
she smiles in the florescent light.
It’s her stop.

Play

The girl that sits on the boy’s lap at the bus stop knows not what she does to him as she bumps and jerks and plays she isn’t aware of his desire or the power that grows in his fist or between his legs she grins and shouts at her friends that pass by showing them the new toy she’s acquired because that’s what he is he’s fun he’s playful and he’s harmless he sits beneath her docile and biding his time until the day comes when she’ll “owe” him a “favor” and like the Reaper he’ll come to collect citing his previous patience his funniness his playfulness his harmlessness the girl that sits on the boy’s lap knows not what must be paid in full poor girl with every bump jerk play she is being taken for a
wild
ride.

Fears

An old woman's bones creak as she climbs aboard a city bus.
She sits in the front, right behind the driver with purse on lap.
Her sheer headscarf is secured with shiny bobby pins
On her face, giant sunglasses reflecting the world that passes.
We pass the old folk's home and her heart flutters.
She's not there, but she knows people, perhaps friends who
Pass the time away there. Or waste away there.
Like passing a cemetary, she holds her breath and says a hail mary
For those who have "passed."
Her wrinkled hands hold her purse tighter, her back straightens
The fear that falls over her face disappears only a few blocks later
Near main street she smiles and converses with others.
Near north street she forgets all about that niggling worry in the
Back of her mind
It comes back only subtly, when she steps off the bus, her bones
Creak their protest and she knows she's damned close to joining
Those who have "passed."

Almost Late

I almost missed the bus today

There were some ducks that needed saving

I was locking my door, on my way

and six or seven birds waddled up to me

I sighed. they looked hungry.

I unlocked my door and shut it behind me

I rifled the cabinets for old bread,

I tore it up and threw it at them

they seemed happier with a little

split top wheat bread doing down their gullets

I felt happier for them.

I caught the bus just in time.