Earlier this morning,
on the subway platform in Brooklyn,
Manhattan bound, I was dealing with the hermeneutics
of pouring rain, soaking people
and the subway train,
that was running late.
and I didn’t find anything prophetic
in this morning nuisance.
Till later, —
when the woman entered the train
with her disabled son.
She didn’t say a word, but the eloquence
of her eyes was overwhelming.
She looked at her boy,
I was looking at them.
I saw the light,
but the shell around my soul
was still too thick
then I had to step off.
She sits across the subway car.
Just an observation:
she is a morphology between the hedonistic urge and the screaming guilt,
a new geometry of beauty
which is traveling along Williamsburg Bridge.
a thin-narrow thread between her inner solitude
and my external celebration of an urban nihilism.
the Orange Book embraced by the sensual-aristocratic fingers.
I see her superimposed on the window
with the background of the empyrean Manhattan,
peeking through the haze of the casual fatigue.
One day I’ll paint her,
over your reflection on the glass wall
standing behind the glass wall,
observing constriction workers:
walking through the building sky-rise scaffolding,
raining the welding spatters
riding the elevator:
up or down.
it is raining outside–
grey water and glowing spatters.
the smoke is mixing with the cars honking
and the after-hours drunken bonding.
a Mid-Town West,
but I’m still standing behind the glass wall–
in a fishbowl longing.
There is an angry lady talking with her ex-husband on the phone.
I lost the count of how many times
she said “talk to my lawer”, or used an F word.
and nobody cared about her bills, and prescribed medication that she was yelling into the air of a subway car.
Everybody were hiding behind the newspapers, or electronic book readers.
Suddenly, one big man loudly sneezed, and another big man told him “Gezuntheit!”,
then they both submerged into their reading.
(the train was doing its way to the first stop)
Meanwhile that woman finished the verbal exchange with her ex, and dissolved into the poker game
on her smartphone.
“people can switch their attention with a speed of browsing pages of a morning newspaper”, I thought to myself.
(I had a craving for a good crunchy hot dog with a sauerkraut, fried onions, and mustard.)
this sensation of being
artificially gauged to the time
fettered by the tourniquet of the suit.
measured by a number of desperate attempts
of the molecules of caffeine to penetrate
membranes of your brain-cells.
watching her fixing the bra and the hair
in the next cubicle
adds an extra dimension to the moment.
(I know, you can watch it in the infinite loop.)
the resistance is futile
to the subtle impulses of your withering libido.
(bite the bullet, it will later dissipate
during a conference call)
another coffee break,
another stolen look.
you call it morning
I call it a self deceit.
trompe l’oeil – visual illusion in art, especially as used to trick the eye into perceiving a painted detail as a three-dimensional object