Two Old Men on the Subway...
Two old men on the subway, seating across from me.
They laugh and they talk and they slap their knees and you can tell they're dear friends.
One with brown leisure suit and an orville reddenbocked bow tie, the other wearing tan slacks, rain boots, a london fog jacket over a v-neck t-shirt with some grey chest hair coming out of the top, a fisherman's bucket cap, and a Hemingway beard.
They tell stories and laugh and when they talk you can hear their accents, from some old world European country.
You can tell they're dear friends, and I wonder if they knew each other back in the old country...
Subway car, Thursday late night...
punk rock drag queen two old men with russian accents four frat boys three black girls in short skirts a man in a tuxedo two lesbians holding hands a gay boy in cut off jeans a well dressed older couple out for a night on the town two mexican laborers either going to or coming from work a kid in hip hop gear and a lot of bling a security guard eatting a tuna sandwich two chinese men with wares from chinatown a woman with a baby in a stroller an indian woman in a sari some homeless guy sleeping in the corner a young rockabilly couple he with grease in his hair wearing a work shirt and some mega mutton chops and she sporting bettie page bangs and a lot of tattoos.
and me.
The Love Song of J. Owen Prufrock
Long blonde hair
Brown boy pants
Jenny Owen Youngs
Will make you dance
She can Shake and bake
Like batter in a bag
With her Sad Robot
Your feet won’t drag
You’ll prance, you’ll sway
You *will* sashay
And if you don’t boogie you’re one of the few
‘Cause Reverend J-O-Y makes you rise from your pew
It is time for me to write...
It is time for me to write.
I have wasted too much time watching televison and surfing the internet.
I have not read enough. I have not written enough.
I have another blog, but it is too narrow in scope. I need a place where I can put any of my words. All of my words.
I have plenty of them. They are scattered about. On my home computer. On my work computer. On my handheld computer.
And in my head. Lots and lots in my head, fighting to get out. But also pulling their punches in the pitched battle, because they are afraid that once the leave, there will be no where for them to go.
They fear they will be stranded, floating in an intangible abyss. They are frightened that they will be captured, torn apart unnecessarily, because the world is harsh.
perhaps this is the place for my words. a place they can call home. A safe harbor where they can rest and relax and blossom, free from uncertainity, free from chaos and mayhem.
Perhaps here, finally, is a place for my words to come home.
Thanks to larry brown, and of course, angie.
