Poemish I wrote on the Subway ride to the grind.

1. A subway Ride…..
Among the entrapments we have laid for ourselves,
Can You Hold please? Ring, thumb, thumb, head pops up for a disheveled second to insure that
the correct stop is not a passed one.
Down, look down; feet don’t wince if you can only scramble your face into a frown.
Pockets clasping electronics, buzzed all the way up and into plugged ears.
No fear, it is happening but you prorated your temperament so to what you should be able to
hear, your eardrums are unable to succumb.
No mere coincidental transfer of people’s lives in a certain time. Time---can’t be bought to
rewind, stands as the furthest thing between you and what you tell yourself at night is the essence of
what one may despise.
Categorize-stuff people, animals into places, instances, minutes, into cabins, only to be virtually
sanctified—Nodded to, to return to you the feeling that you are real, not just existing in this time. That
you so need to capitalize, that you are so ready to itemize—that you can hardly dignify.
In the guise of some semi-permanent cascade of contriving eyes, you may try to seek to
compete, to compel life to be one not conscribed.
Not irrationalized, not for profit—privatized, not desensitized, not itemized, made to
compromise, indecently commercialized, to hazard the principles by which you epitomize the semblance
of what is worthy in the shadow of a greater being’s eyes.
A camped-out whored out, rationalized permanent detention for which you could never find a
way to subsidize without leaving all of your soul in shock, a state of permanent hunger you would never
have the courage to subside?
Is it to that to which you would raise your head a moment from your Phone, Computer, T.V.
show,---to give your time to a moment---now Humanized?
All the while, complacent to trivialize the time, the only thing you have in a moment and can
give to another to warrant some shared understanding of what stands to be gained when you can
remember to look up at the sky. TO size your demise into a pressure cooked diminutive concoction that
you hope others not ONLY understand but SOMEHOW recognize?
You, thumb, thumb, ring, ring, only enough time to say there is not enough time at all for all the
things---and the collection gets you nowhere.
To concoct to compare such a dismissive zombied existence—IS that what you are fighting for?
Is that the war you spoke in favor for? Is that the impetus of your waking life—Do you not see there IS
NO winning score?
The recesses you penetrate instead of regress, the lives you manage to affect, the standing for
something that has no room for regret.-----
THAT is where the time you want to be able to remember SHOULD be spent.