Subway #3


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FEDS is the ray-gun
I the tractored beam
FEDS the beam in my eye

We are well beyond
the sand and surf in which
we previously moped quietly
Thank Zoltan for
the box with a mystery inside
This dancehall our mausoleum, this
platinum record of
our actions against
our revolutionary potential. Could we
be wasting paper if
and even then –

As children we
possessed many beams:
tractor, wooden, Jim
Now it’s all rays:
vaporizing, ice, death
I will hold you tightly against
night’s light sensitive paper
FEDS, I have
worked in a mine
shaft, walked
six miles in the
snow to school and
had no pencils, trust me
In my day –
FEDS this station can’t come
fast enough
I am cursing
this slow Sunday
train, I only want
to walk the dark and
Western paths with
you, naming things,
shadows, panging

Soon I will be the man
in your immediate
vicinity and will acquit
myself well as a citizen,
speak well, breathe
softly, listen to your
pauses, try to feel
out your difference,
why you might have gotten
that new haircut

Across from me
a young pretty Asian woman
is doing just this, is writing.
On the F, her shoes are
black, her dress is green
she listens to an iPhone with
white earbuds
She writes furiously
in a Moleskin
We are both doing
all this, and chewing gum
the both of us, white earbudded, chewing
scrabbling at paper
We even match colors,
dressed in the same
deep forest greens
and shiny blacks
I catch her eye
and smile
as if to say all this, as if
to acknowledge, huh, hey, look
at the two of us so similar
She looks at me like
I am some buggy-thing, some
subway creepy-crawler
then dives into her notebook
which I will never read.

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