Ronin on the MBTA

You are a failed teacher,
a tight pony-tailed,
tight  faded rock t-shirted brooder.

An unencoded cipher.

An old puzzle,
faded pieces,
key connectors lost in cushions,
in babies bellies.

A tattooed, pierced wannabe pirate,
on the bus home from his day job
stacking shelves at Urban Outfitters.

And I am just another Johnny,
swaying to the Internet’s incidental music,
Eno’s heirs, the ones who missed the point,
pho-weeping in my ears.

Just some guy
in a semi-proper suit,
discount off-the-rack, but
German, nonetheless,
self-shined square toes,
daydreamifying of
monkeys flying, paralleling the bus,
they’re making that hostile eye contact with me
that strange new kids get on the playground,
that way they greet a threat –
that secret code still embedded in our DNA,
ground-bound monkeys,
gripping rocks
to crush the skull of the interloper…
the kids are closer to the ground,
to the old tribes…

they’re scudding past me now,
dismissive,
no threat here…
now they’re leering at the serious girl in funky glasses
clutching her HD display,
so serious about her Tao Lin.

Or was it the latest Pilgrim adventure?
Too far to tell.

And me… peeking at real HD,
out the window, eyeing your reflection,
uneasily
(are you clutching a rock, now?)

I’m studying an aping of Shane,
all tattooed, and
just now
exiting out
into the last little bit of sun.

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About Martin

I'm just... filling time.
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