Slog
News & ArtsWednesday, March 18, 2009
Insomnia Midnight Bus Poetry
Posted by Paul Constant on Wed, Mar 18, 2009 at 12:00 AM
Untitled
by Abby Gambrill
Dear Metro Surveys:Every time you ask —
I say: I would like more 48s.Yet, I always seem to ride
the same one.The one with graffiti on the seat just behind the rear door —
written in script that is hard for my
white-person eyes to read.I think it might say
bitch.
3
Because white people are foreign to the art of graffiti?
Maybe the artist KNOWS Abby sits there every time, and the inscribed "Bitch" was for her.
Maybe the artist KNOWS Abby sits there every time, and the inscribed "Bitch" was for her.
4
Paul Constant give Charles Baudelaire can of Rize, Charles Baudelaire drink Rize, freak out, Bukowski out, CHARLES BAUDELAIRE BECOME CHARLES BUKOWSKI!
CHARLES BUKOWSKI WILL SPEW OUT VOLUMES UPON VOLUMES OF BAD POETRY, INSPIRE GENERATIONS OF BAD METRO BUS POETS TO CONTINUE TRADITION OF BAD METRO BUS POETRY!
And no, I don't feel like letting it go.
CHARLES BUKOWSKI WILL SPEW OUT VOLUMES UPON VOLUMES OF BAD POETRY, INSPIRE GENERATIONS OF BAD METRO BUS POETS TO CONTINUE TRADITION OF BAD METRO BUS POETRY!
And no, I don't feel like letting it go.
6
I don't think the writer is racist.....but he is definitely trying to get the reader to picture someone who is kind of oblivious and "racist" by ignorance.
8
commuters waiting upon spring
the rains descended:
each drop of driving mist
coursing through the sky
down, down to the streets and gutters
of this green city
and it is the way wet people crowded into buses
stare through the spaces between each other
and the way everything can suddenly
change like winter passing over
to new growth:
an emergent synthesis
of life and death
upon the toothless grins
of children and old men.
One more year, one more life
in this city, on this earth
trundling toward destinations
of terrifying joy and tear-filled collapse
we wait for the sun to burn through our gray veil.
the rains descended:
each drop of driving mist
coursing through the sky
down, down to the streets and gutters
of this green city
and it is the way wet people crowded into buses
stare through the spaces between each other
and the way everything can suddenly
change like winter passing over
to new growth:
an emergent synthesis
of life and death
upon the toothless grins
of children and old men.
One more year, one more life
in this city, on this earth
trundling toward destinations
of terrifying joy and tear-filled collapse
we wait for the sun to burn through our gray veil.
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