Waiting For the Slow Train to Come
I have begun my wait for the B/C train
at the 86 street station,
which means I’ll be here for a while,
cuz I don’t see
that slow train comin,
96 street 1/2/3 stop
is so much more dependable,
but a bit out of my way, ya see,
a walk to Broadway I used to enjoy,
but so far, since I got back from my summer travels,
no,
how I can’t wait to move away
from this upper west side cuisinart
so many races, classes tossed in together
but never
any
young
radically idealistic freaks,
it wreaks here of
PC, neoliberal Al/Tipper Gore extollers
and the nihilist offspring spawned of such a world,
and how I long to clear straight away from
this Central Park West Streissand penthouse,
parentally pampered paradise,
but this ain’t my idea of paradise,
nor is any garden of eden,
I want a buzz
I want soul
I want that desperate revolution I am so drawn to
I wanna fly away home to
snug single-room in the East Village
which is why I’m gonna take the subway downtown,
the closest subway
though it be the slowest subway
don’t wanna walk through this cuisinart,
don’t wanna subject my uniquity to a blender,
egg-beater, milk-shaker,
I like my vegetables raw, whole,
cold wet and crunchy,
not as a compliant element of a health-drink mix,
I’m gonna watch out for the blades,
those that cut you so sharp
when in your passing you hear
“freak”
in a comical grunted cough,
or under-breath whisper,
screaming so softly behind you,
blowing poisonous pea-shooter darts into your back,
it’s so uncomfortable to be stabbed by stares and contempt of so many
but nor do I feel comfortable
when I don’t look radical,
the manner in which you present yourself,
is a direct, wide-reaching statement,
and to look in accordance to
the status quo
is to show approval,
one must shock
create a contrast
so as to clash,
slash at
the system.
With long hair,
I show solidarity
(but not strict conformity to)
the psychedelia,
the idealism,
the trippy hippie free-love,
I show support of
gender fusion
and the reckless disregard of
expectations imprinted upon all of us based only upon the status of our genatilia,
let hair not reflect the outside
but the groovy personalities inside,
where modern man
can cleanly cut
impeccably trim
obsessively direct their hair
that it be orderly, presentable
trite, reserved, acceptable,
I prefer
an unkept, unkempt
mess
of free-flowing easy-going wavelengths
that you can jump on,
and ride, oh, ride me
do,
I love you too,
long tie-dye shirt
blue-purple streaked
white maelstrom at heart centerpoint
pumping out swirling spirals
illuminated; dynamic,
oh the complexity,
African pants,
imported to 10th street and 7th from
Senegal,
so intense a drawing of
lime green pigments
that it shines vibrant as fruit,
as a discolored sun,
as a brilliant mind-fuck eye-fuck orgasm,
green and purple clash vivid like,
rocks thrown full force at
iron imposium walls,
dissipate to sand on impact
and become a part of unity
of atmospherical beaches,
struck by white-crested waves,
soaked up on impact
then rolled and sucked back into
the cycle
the drenched salt
that never stops
swirling