300 words entry nine On a train to nowhere (in particular)
I get poetic in the city. It’s looking at the skyline of buildings from a rooftop that gets me every time. I cry at the beauty and humiliation of man. I follow with my eyes the creatures on the streets moving along moving along moving along moving along.
Not that long ago I was in Puerto Vallarta, Jalisco, Mexico, on a rooftop looking over the city in the bright light of the sun – the yellow and the bricks – the uneven sidewalks below – the smell of cement heat and that freedom of being high in the air and seeing the water towers on the roofs.
In Astoria, New York, United States at night it is quiet. I leave the fifth floor apartment and go up to the roof to look at the bridge in the distance and the architectural poetry beneath the starless night and spin around in circles and am happy to be here, to be here now.
And wonder when I will go back.
Yeah. It’s cold again. I wear black with renewed vigor. Stare wistfully at cemeteries with gray headstones and crawling tree branches. I’ve been doing some thinking lately, the kind where you don’t notice the drive.
Plans made are easily broken,
driving home along a rural highway, the half moon low on the horizon, in a sky fresh from days of rain now passing away black clouds crossing my path,
It is well past midnight
when the black cat crossed my path
it was the hour of the dead
when the mirror crashed in the hallway
at four a.m.,
I was picking up shards of jagged, shattered reflections and thinking about what it was like for Juliet to stab herself in the heart.