11:42 P.M., Somewhere Among Chains And Tracks

We took
to the subway car like bread
to mold, silhouettes of breath staining
the white-tinted windows, laughter stroking
the seats as we ricocheted about like dogs, dirt
settling in our folded-
paper faces. It was
almost empty: so by
trapping the carrion
hearts of new passersby,
we stabbed with our gaze at
the lies in their eyes.
(we watched as new Nikes clasped the tile, treaded into
existence like a shadow in the corner of sight).
Avoiding this intrusion
I joke about my unusual
sexuality: grasp gawks with
a businessman:
let him
know that he’s a chained
hawk
with a challenge
to fly.
And the energy of illumination
accrues within my taste
buds.
(now just living alone, each one to their home: I sit and let
my senses cogitate).
and Nikes shuffle on
the yellow tile, and I look
nowhere near the face: feared,
which I imagine but only hear:
the laugh.
the laugh, repeated.
and tapping shoes
and fingers. and fingers like tarantulas. one curling. towards my
jeans. and the laugh. and tapping shoes and they cackle with fingers like tarantulas and laugh in the
subway with lies in their eyes and a spreading mold that engulfs me like a chained hawk and my taste buds are stale and
with tapping shoes and fingers like tarantulas curling they laugh, repeated and speak:

faggot.

forget.

11:42 P.M., Somewhere Among Chains And Tracks

JakeSoiffer

Joined April 2010

  • Artist
    Notes

Artist's Description

Shit happens,

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