los angeles bus

December 14, 2008

it’s an easy walk to the 750 at dawn.  we are falling through a tidal pool of roses; we grab radiant the arc of light here in a pale silver leaf.  our ears mercury to the touch, they are found again in tires, in reverberation out along a marbled conscience thick with sleep and fracturing dreams.  explosions of neurons react; a chemical information manual with leaves, sidewalk and sky.  we are pouring ourselves into this twisting world, we thrust ourselves into its jaws, our quivering city.

the light changes to green and i walk across woodman.  several cars pull up with their lights on.  the meter in my head recedes into a million unanswered questions, rent, job, love, peace, fear, peace, peace.  so the bus comes right on time, there’s an led flickering red that makes sure of that, and i get on.  the bus is warm.

off into the metro is like walking into the most comfortable, boring purgatory we can make ourselves.  i walk down and see a few, all moving in agreed convenience for the anarchy of speed.   metal and the silent, mostly just waiting and more waiting.  i feel the wind on my face being pushed by the train 1/2 mile away.  it speeds up and i hear a beautiful ratio from a motor maybe of a bit shy of 5/4, and then the door chimes closed with a true 5/4 close to 100 cents flat.  it sounds like stravinsky and i wish he could have run the trains somehow.

i know these people.  they wait like me and file themselves into their daily function.  we are left together in this place, abandoned and inhaled into the lungs of the day.


2 Responses to “los angeles bus”

  1. Steve Says:

    this is fawesome. (fucking awesome)

    with a few choice line breaks, this would make a spectacular poem, more spectacular than it already is.

  2. I had no car when I ‘lived’ in LA so the Bus was my only means of getting around. It took all day to get from El Segundo to Santa Monica, which in a car would take 20 minutes in light traffic.

    I knew the collection of people pretty well in LA, the urban migrant workers, reliance on the double wide motion machine for their economic survival. I was going beach to beach, or sight seeing Metro-style, occasionally going to a rare job interview, my fellow passengers had no other choice.

    Speaking on the bus seemed not an option, for any word you spoke lead to a conversation you would dread for the rest of the day: Faces of sorrow and frustration. When Buddha stated that “all life is sorrowful,” I think he imagined ridding on the Metro in his infinite mind.

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