40th and Market; final draft. (formerly El Thoughts One)

Salt dissolved in water sticks to my shoes
crawls up my pant legs
fresh spit snow and crusty coat
chunks of ice slip and slide beneath the soles of my shoes,
black and gray speckled white mazes
in this record-breaking winter
I criss
cross the dwarf I am
against this skyline of man made sequoias
concrete rebar buildings of glass and glowing lights
testament of some kind of life in the spinning airs of the world:
a soft pillow to our concerns pitted far flung in space.
I am moving so fast I'll never slow down.

The scene on the corner of 40th and Market
men standing grease or anything-else smudged polyester jackets
worn soles propped on empty and upside down Pepsi crates
and the ambassador speaks, “Get a ride!” “Get a ride.”
A taxi ride but where's the taxi?

The El runs under these streets and you can hear it rumble
you can hear it scream
and you can have whatever you want
trinkets cheap bling incense body oils,
bootleg movies hot off the press,
Bo-Sing Chicken, nails or a new haircut,
H & R Block day care and a wine shoppe
tried to go into Flynn's but Flynn's be closed.

I slide my gloved hand on the rail and descend.
my feet graze steps and my eyes like a beeline
keep my pace in line
so I don't stumble here at this stairwell finish line,
too late to miss this one, too late to wait
six or less or ten or twelve minutes
depending on the time of day.

I cross the platform entrance
run the pass push through the turnstile.

The whine and screech of train songs congest the air
platform three-quarters full of scattered people and I,
step left step right fill gaps in efficiency
ever crowding is the rush hour El.

Doors slide open like Star Wars
I pass portal to a land of blank stares
and vacant aural landscapes
but for the tinny sound of a hip hop amplified iPod
and the cajole of a mother to her daughter,
"Sit down." "Sit down!"

Or the braggadocio of two seasoned brothers
slap-sticking black verbal dance on the urban landscape
scat about cards and women and hard luck,
two seats to a man.
And though I am just on my way to work
language also is written on the walls around me.

40th and Market; draft #4

Salt dissolved in water sticks to my shoes
crawls up my pant legs
fresh spit snow and crusty coat
chunks of ice slip and slide beneath the soles of my shoes,
black and gray speckled white mazes
I criss cross
the dwarf I am against this skyline of man made sequoias
brick stone glass and glowing lights
cutting gashes through the spinning airs of the world:
soft pillow to our concerns pitted far flung in this space
where I am moving so fast I'll never slow down.

the scene on the street corner
men standing splotched polyester jackets
propped on empty and upside down 2 liter Pepsi crates
“Get a ride!” “Get a ride.”

“Get a ride!”

A taxi ride but where's the taxi?

The El runs under these streets and you can hear it rumble
you can hear it scream
and you can have whatever you want
trinkets cheap bling incense body oils,
bootleg movies hot off the press,
Bo-Sing Chicken, nails or a new haircut,
tried to go into Flynn's but Flynn's be closed:
sometimes lucky the fate of the passerby
I am so I walk on
walking man leads the way.

I slide my gloved hand on the rail and descend.
my feet graze steps and my eyes like a beeline keep my pace in line
to keep from stumbling here at this stairwell finish line,
too late to miss this one, too late to wait
six or less or ten or twelve minutes
depending on the time of day.

I cross the platform entrance
run the pass push through the turnstile.

Whine and screech train songs congest the air
platform three-quarters full of scattered people and I, stepping left stepping right,
fill gaps in efficiency.

Doors slide open like Star Wars,
I pass portal to the land of blank stares
and vacant aural landscapes:
this but for the tinny sound of a hip hop amplified iPod
or the sometimes reasoned sometimes outlandish cajole of a mother to her daughter
"Sit down." "Sit down!"

"Sit down!"

or the braggadocio of two seasoned brothers
slapstick black leather charm
something must have been funny but I missed it
I who keep my face buried in books
while language also is written on walls.

40th and Market; draft #3

Salt dissolved in water sticks to my shoes
crawls up my pant legs
and leaves behind a shadow of a spectacle
somber notes at the end of a cold day in the city.

Fresh spit snow and crusty coat
chunks of ice slip and slide beneath the soles of my shoes,
black and gray speckled white mazes
through the dwarf that is me against a skyline of man made sequoias
tall brick stone buildings shining glass and glowing lights
cutting gashes through the spinning airs of the world:
soft pillow to our concerns pitted far flung in this space
where I am moving so fast I'll never slow down.

the scene on the street corner
men standing splotched polyester jackets
propped on empty and upside down 2 liter Pepsi crates
“Get a ride!” “Get a ride.”

“Get a ride!”

A taxi ride but where's the taxi?

The El runs under these streets and you can hear it rumble
you can hear it scream
and you can have whatever you want
trinkets cheap bling incense body oils,
bootleg movies hot off the press,
Bo-Sing Chicken, nails or a new haircut,
tried to go into Flynn's but Flynn's be closed:
sometimes lucky the fate of the passerby
I am so I walk on, walking man leads my way.

I slide my gloved hand on the rail and descend.
my feet graze these steps and my eyes like a beeline keep my pace in line
to keep from stumbling here at this stairwell finish line,
too late to miss this one, too late to wait
six or less or ten or twelve minutes
depending on the time of day.

I cross the platform entrance, gloves slip off into my left hand
my right now reaches into my raincoat's breast pocket:
running the pass I push through the turnstile.

Whine and screech train songs congest the air
platform three-quarters full of scattered people and I, stepping left stepping right,
try to be first in line
filling gaps in efficiency.

Doors slide open like Star Wars,
I pass portal to the land of blank stares
and vacant aural landscapes:
this but for the tinny sound of a hip hop amplified iPod
or the reasoned or outlandish cajole of a mother to her daughter
"Sit down." "Sit down!"

"Sit down!"

or the braggadocio of two seasoned brothers
slapstick black leather charm
something must have been funny but you missed it
you who keep your face buried in books
while language also is written on walls.

40th and Market; draft #2

Salt dissolved in water sticks to my shoes
crawls up my pant leg's inseam
leaves behind a shadow or ghost of a spectacle
that enshrouded this somber city.

Fresh spit snow and crusty coat
chunks of ice slips and slides the soles beneath my feet
hinders my walking me dwarfed by these man made sequoias
tall brick and stone buildings and taller sky-
scrapers cutting gashes in the spinning airs of the world:
soft pillow to our concerns pitted far flung in this space
where I am moving so fast I'll never slow down.

the scene on the street corner
men standing splotched polyester jackets
propped on empty and upside down 2 liter Pepsi crates
“Get a ride!” “Get a ride.”

“Get a ride!”

A taxi ride but where's his taxi?
the El runs under these streets so you can have whatever you want
trinkets cheap bling incense body oils,
Bo-sing Chicken, nails or a new haircut:
sometimes lucky the fate of the passerby
I am so I walk on, walking man leads my way.

I slide my gloved hand on the rail and descend
watching my feet lest I lose my step
or stumble here at this stairwell finish line,
too late to miss this one, too late to wait
six or eight or ten or twelve minutes
depending on the time of day.

I cross the platform entrance, gloves slip off then into the left hand
the right now reaching into breast pocket:
Running the pass I push through the turnstile.

Whine and screech train songs congest the air
platform half full of scattered people and I, stepping left stepping right,
try to be first in line
filling gaps in efficiency.

Doors slide open like Star Wars,
I pass portal to the land of blank stares
and vacant aural landscapes:
this but for the tinny sound of an hip hop amplified iPod,
or the reasoned or outlandish cajole of a mother to her daughter
"Sit down." "Sit down!"

"Sit down!"

or the braggadocio of two seasoned brothers
slapstick black leather charm
something must have been funny but you missed it
you who keep your face buried in books
while the language is written on walls.

40th and Market; rough draft

Salt dissolved in water sticks to my shoes
crawls up the inseam of my pants
leaves behind a shadow of a
ghost of a spectacle enshrouded in this somber city.

Fresh spit of snow and crusty coats chunks of ice
slips and slides the soles beneath my feet
hinders my walking me dwarfed by these man made sequoias
tall brick and stone buildings and taller sky-
scrapers cutting gashes in the spinning airs of the world:
soft pillow to our concerns pitted far flung in this space
where I am moving so fast I'll never slow down.

I walk hands tight against my body
soft brown cloth hat, ensign of muted pastel
triangles arranged lengthwise round the head every color of the rainbow,
rain coat and dark thermals layered against the cold
insulated against the wind.

the scene on the street corner
men standing splotched jackets
propped on empty and upside down 2 liter pepsi crates
“Get a ride!” “Get a ride.”

“Get a ride!”

The El runs under the streets so there is always someone going on
trinkets and cheap bling incense body oils,
catcalls, lo-key jabs, never scene a fight
but I have seen two man yell each other down
sometimes lucky the fate of the passerby
I am so I walk on, walking man leads my way.

Sliding my gloved hand on the rail I descend
watching my feet lest I lose my step
or stumble here at this stairwell finish line,
too late to miss this one, too late to wait
six or eight or ten minutes
depending on the time of day.
I cross the platform entrance, gloves slip into left hand
right side reaches into breast pocket,
and runs the pass pushes through turnstile.

Whine and screech train songs congests the air
platform half full of scattered people and I, stepping left stepping right
try to be first in line
filling gaps in efficiency.

Doors slide open like Star Wars,
I pass the portal to a land mostly of blank stares
vacant aural landscapes,
but for the tinny sound of an hip hop amplified iPod,
or the reasoned or outlandish cajole of a mother to her daughter
"Sit down." "Sit down!"

"Sit down!"

or the braggadocio of two seasoned brothers
slapstick black leather charm
something must have been funny but you missed it
you who keep your face buried in books,
buried in the written language:
but it is written all over the walls
of this subterranean urban jungle,
as much underwater as it is underland.