Tuesday, March 31, 2015
A bouquet of roses, delicate and long stemmed,
smashed repeatedly upon the shoulder of her lover
in a giddy playfulness which rained peddles upon the floor.
a floor of urban grit and grime.
her screams of submission
by her lover of dreadlocks passion
and half covered ass.
golden from ear to tooth
he was as sensual as he was boorish.
displayed a certain indiscretion
upon the world
as we all witnessed it
cramped and annoyed.
we all indirectly watched.
we all had no choice.
the rail passengers,
the couple’s audience,
looked through their actions
and far beyond the woman's cries
-- because we all had heard them before
and became tolerant.
their passions raised and continued just as we
along the tracks of
there were others on the train.
some asleep, others chillin'
-- as they would call it.
all of them dressed in rag tagged grunge
and tattered plaid and grilled tweed,
a 40 in one hand,
and a middle finger
ever ready to be triggered.
flicked and shot up at those that would abject
to a generation called X.
cold and careless to the world
it was summer everyday and all the time
for this cogently lost age.
rappa tap tappin' a
tongue click clappin'
they beat a steady rip
to the roar of the underground train.
and bothered no one at all
in their world of choice.
the train continued
rip roar and roll
through the urban veins of a city.
the sound of the Path
to Journal Square from 33rd
echoing the passing of a dying night of decadent delight,
crawling unrelentingly towards the possibility of a new day.
dirtied and used
she moved abused
in a timely fashion.
much like all those that came and gone
as they went about their personal business.
like rejected monopoly pieces
set upon plastic and pseudo leather squared seats,
they all just sat
each rider either passing go
and not collecting $200
or habitually crapping out,
waiting for that double
to get out of jail,
sentenced to a lifetime of monotony and mediocrity.
a brief stop here,
a brief stop there,
the world and beyond came along for the ride.
23rd Street, 14th Street, and 9th
i saw the tired, the hungry, and the morally troubled.
some chasing facsimiles of the Quest, Red Man, Gangstar
and the sister Queen.
still others just acted the part
the cracks of men and women,
eye to eye
contact for contact.
and through all
the rip rattle and roar
not one word was uttered.
but if you spoke in eyes
. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . too much was said.
-- the stop of P's and C's
and brought more conversation to others.
both spoken and unspoken.
befuddled men spoke in spit filled slurs
which spewed upon the residents of the cars,
it would seem that the street beggars are starting earlier.
or was it late?
at four in the morning
in a city that never sleeps
time was irrelevant.
sleep was futile.
the will to live
was all that was necessary
when alms for the poor became the only way to survive.
screeches and jerks
the countdown to finality
after Grove, Newport,and Exchange Place,
we ended in New Jersey,
its city and
an assumed subtlety,
in its deception of safety.
for but one dollar of happiness,
one more dollar to step on the rose peddles on the floor
we end our exhibition
within the soul of the Path
and go home to our other selves
as the sun rises.
Fallen Peddles written by Shazza Nakim
Copyright © 1993 All Rights Reserved by Peace of Mind Publishings, Inc.