Michael Vitaly

theatre maker, writer, artist

Month: June, 2011

lines from underground. moving.

 

I

ten car metal spirits
box car dragon tails,
breathing fire underground
swaths of smoke and hot air,
a squealing flight begins.

eyes like search lights
gullets cool and clammy,
climbing in
we wish to be moved
in one way or another.

strangers packed and eaten too
bitten by cause of movement,
together digested inside this beast
we stream on down the line.

they talk they swear
undead and unaware
they cling they climb
frozen in place and time.

brown painted bellies
by tracks so rusty
silver ‘neath the guise belies
the black and dusty
soot filled
rancid
putrid cold and old
spruced upon and painted too
they’re all the same
whether old or new.

in and out. all the same.
all within, naught’s to blame,
this city’s dirt lies within us all,
to ashes and dust we all will fall.

II

express trains pass
clanking dragons metal riding
spirits in heat screaming for freedom
perpetual timelessness underground
the wee small hours, the more you wait
in rushing hours, people populate.

there’s so much writing on the wall,
mindless drummers to heed whose call?
brick and tile slick with fluorescents
floors wet with vomit and humanoid essence

men layered thick with multiple tshirts
women reading the times stretched across two seats
one smells likes urine neither you’d like to meet.
dresses in summer satin
bare toes in dirty sneaks
i love new york and flannel patterns
buttoned up and wired too
thin ankles and wide thighs
another one to two seats.

chuck taylors and wing tipped shoes
fashion boots and flip flops ooze.
grown men beg for money
while pretty women deftly hide,
some look away some dig for change,
trying hard not to notice some rearrange
themselves and retreat inside themselves,
or to their phones pads and nooks
shirking guilt with frowning looks.

what a shame, get a job
scream the stares that are so quiet,
I’d like to help but I’m broke myself
mumbles my constant internal riot
the tunnel screams and mutes us all.

men with leering eyes and neatly pressed button downs
smell of cheap light beer and stare through the gowns
of sleeping beauties drunk with night
and others who stare ahead with fright

some are pressed so close to others
taking advantage with sensual smothers
lonely lusters and loose lanky loners
staring dumbfounded with if-only mental boners

everyone’s flush sweaty or tired
the rest seemed distressed
zombie-like, wired.
some push and shove
some smile meekly,
we’re all in this together
public transport underground,
but some see no feather
alike like they’re better.

hats and brands fly like flags.
while entitlement aches like pride,
lost white stripes and bands of red
and the stars you know drag
from storytales so dead.

III

Then beneath once again
You find a seat you find a friend,
Atop the soot, free from the rain,
The underground’s simple charm remains.
The express buzzes by
Clicks on through
Races high and out of view.
Nighttime concerts interrupt
Trombones and electric guitars.
Summertime and the livin’s easy,
Hush metal spirit
Let ‘em play, let him sing,
Stars shine on in
And ring a ding ding.

Out and in. All the same.
All without, but who’s to blame,
this city’s dirt lies within us all,
ashes to ashes we all will fall.

blue painted skies
by dreams so dusty
silver ‘neath the guise belies
the brown and rusty
smoke filled
gusty
insipid hot and fresh
pissed upon and painted too
they’re all the same
whether old or new.

some talk some swear
undead and unaware
all cling and hang until
frosty whistles — exit — shrill.

strangers packed and eaten too
bitten by cause of movement,
together digested inside this beast
we stream on down the line.

eyes like search lights
gullets cool and clammy,
climbing in
we wish to be moved
in one way or another.

ten car metal spirits
box car dragon tails,
breathing fire underground
swaths of smoke and hot air,
a squealing flight

for some it stops for some it begins
moving, moving.

All the time.

 

 

The Express Train

A wind that rocks me back on my feet
Comes from the train that passes.

And as it slows I regain my balance
And I wait for the doors to open.

It’s been like that this City thus far,
Rushing and working and waiting.

I race out of the car propelling myself forward by the door’s edge.

I tend to run wherever I’m going.
As if someone is chasing me.

I rise from the Underground
Facing the Empire State Building,
But I don’t notice it today,
Today I keep my head down,
And my feet move quick against the traffic on wet pavement.

A cringe-worthy wind that makes others run for cover
Cuts around these buildings as I cut towards it.

And as it slows I’ve already turned the corner and pedestrian traffic slows.

Sparsely peppered with less shopper/tourists,
Rushing and working and waiting.

Weaving through and sashaying around, propelling myself by the wind’s edge.

I tend to slow when I get where I’m going.

I rose from the Underground
Facing the Empire State Building,
And I hear it underground again,
And I raise my head
My feet have reached the door, my hand has reached its handle.

The Train.

This City.

Rushing and working and waiting.

Quick against the traffic on wet pavement.

Weaving through and sashaying around, propelling myself by the wind’s edge.

I rise from the Underground,
But the Express Train
Rumbles on.