Okay, so how about a story about people on a train, and a narrative that keeps returning to the train. No, not Harry Potter. I don't personally ever take the train anywhere so its always reminds me of being in the womb or being trapped. I always wonder if thats death--going into the dark, with someone else in control of the ride.  You have to surrender something to ride a fast moving metal box through tunnels with strangers.

All these people though together in essentially a large closet. So, is this the story of A Story that begins with the author boarding the train walking past passengers on parade?
The subway with all its people-a pool of characters inviting narrative.  They come, they go.

How about that woman over there as she walks to a seat.  What's her name?  She looks like a Jeaninne.  Her black polyester slacks pull, glinting in the light.  Her shoes tiny little things, strips and straps forcing her thick ankles to stay put.

There is a battle going on between Jeannine and her garments.  Her clothes stretch and pull. Each motion she makes as she adjusts her oversized purse to lower herself in between two slender boys.
 
One is clean and neat.  Hair fashionably disheveled-but the angle is impossible to achieve.  He cultivates bedhead like a careful gardener fussing over a prized Japanese banzai. He has slender genes.  Slender genes and Skinny jeans. His legs seem so thin, his face is all angles.  Very very dark blue jeans, and a bleached white shirt vaguely linen.  There is always a belt and A bag. 

When you look at his face you always have to wonder if he is wearing eye make-up.  His jewelery glints.  Something silver on his fingers catches the light between tunnels.  There always well-worn boots on his feet. No matter east or west or even whether you are on the Subway or The Metro or The Underground.  You will see him. And inexplicably a plump woman with smeared make-up, in harsh unflattering colours will sit with him. 

The other boy, the not quite matching bookend, keeping Jeanine in her seat, he has has pink streaks, in his black hair. So much jewelery adorns his face--his eyebrow, his lips, and his ears. He has music and he is lost in it. His t-shirt glows, his jeans just the perfect shade of denim, with a large studded black belt.  The math book he takes out of his bag seems an interesting accessory.  He leafs though, face furrowed, in concentration.  He is oblivious, he has to be in this odd world of strangers who don't make eye contact in intimate settings for long periods.  I don't get that close to anyone for that long otherwise unless I am in some intimate act.

Jeannine though, she just bulges out of her fitted knit top.  There is sweat on her upper lip.  She is vaguely wheezy. Large impossible hoops dangle from her ears, stretching them. Her arms naked below the bicep seem released, or maybe they escaped from sleeves.  Flesh set free rising slightly.  There is a sadness that hits me. I labour to breath imagining pains, discomfort,  as I think of flesh trapped  by clothing.  She contorts, flexing her impossibly thin shoes.  They glint gold and black.  Incongruous bows sit on the strap.

What do you do?  Where are you going with your large bag.  You wear a lot of make-up.  Your hair pulled up into a ponytail.    Your skin is more jaundice looking that olive, your nails have extensions, and at some point you recognize a fellow traveller, who boards two or three stops after you.

A colleague from work.  Sarah, I think she should be called.  Sarah is impossibly thin, looking almost translucent in a creamy dress.  Such a stark contrast are her thin pale arms and legs. She has a large silver bangle on her arm. Her hair hangs bleached blond, just above her shoulders. Its held with a hairband.  A hard plastic pink hairband pulling her hair back .  she looks like a washed out Snow White, but with really blotchy skin showing.  Tottering on heels, that are not quite the right shade of white she rearranges a large purse and a briefcase.  Her dress is fresh cream, but her shoes are snow.y. 

On their minds is The Meeting.  As others around them zip and unzip bags, newspapers shuffle, announcements are made, people exit, people board and I strain to hear their conversation. Something is happening to them. I want to know.  Just like I could feel the tightness on the swollen feet of criss-crossing thing straps, now I feel the fear, tension, and ennui.

"Wee should ax hur" Jeannine says sounding vaguely like a character in a bad movie.  Someone from New York on a Toronto subway?  I am excited to have a voice to match the face. Sounds too high pitched.  There isn't a hint of discomfort either--so she is oblivious to her strappy shoes confining her swollen feat, her mind ignoring the seated boys. 
The Earth Goddess and effeminite priests? The image doesn't inspire my imagination, so I let it go, leaning forward. Jeannine frowns.  She has spotted me looking at her.

Sarah seems less sure.  She has blemishes and large pores on her face, caked with makeup just slightly the wrong shade.  Maybe its the season that alters her skin.  Her hair is thin.  This other colleague seems a threat--I picture Angelina Jolie in a power suit issuing orders for some reason.  Maybe she's a rival or a boss.  Impossible to tell as I can't hear.  So, I have to extrapolate.  Otherwise what is there to do?

An annoying man interrupts my thoughts.  He's unshaven and drinking a coffee.  Bored, he tries to make small talk.  He starts discussing the newspaper article. The major or maybe its the premier.  Something needs to be done.  I nod blandly.  Who the hell is he?  This guy's panting. English isn't his first language.  Its like watching a play, and maybe suddenly  meta theatre, but I don't want the characters to speak to me.  Whatever he is saying I can't hear the chatting women.  I also can't be bothered to talk to him, though at other times I might, so there is nothing to do but wait.  Someone will soon leave--perhaps me.  I should check my map.

fairies and chocolate

wings catching the light
reflections on water
gold ribbon, white ribbon

do they come in adult sizes?
so I can don wings
big white wings with sparkles

dark chocolate
melting enveloping
red raspberries sinking in chocolate
join the warm darkness
which yields a little
but later the fruit sinks
unbearably heavy

refusing to release
lifting 

The sky is so gray,
The plane flies overhead
dissapearing,
a buzzing solitary sound
which soon fades to nothingness
The lamp in this room
is soft
Accentuating the red of the curtains
lulling me into a soothed state
The lightening flashes punctuate
My sentences
And the soft sound of rain embraced by
 wind
rather like crinkling: whispering
Giggling reaches me
as breeze and rain gently tickle
the cherry tree
Stirring the branches, lifting the leaves
Wet gray twilight greet each other in the tree.

I like things blurry and undefined
Gray smokey edges
Caches of treasure
Buried things recently interred
Waiting between pleasure and pain
Choosing neither, choosing both

Late night tapping

Just as I disentangle myself from wires and keyboards,
Unbidden ideas beckon rather than bedsheets
And like an umbilical cord my computer and I
seem symbiotic all at once
The empty screen suddenly filling
As my fingers dance upon the keyboard
Tapping a rhythm my brain cannot
Begin to decipher

This is when some other
More adept version of me
Spews verity after an inspirational swig
Drinking from hidden springs
That emerges from a place I never
Find sanctuary

if I stop for a moment
I hold my breath fearful that the tapping
will abate
And dreading as well that once I stop to
meet the words I have brought with ease,
A salivating ghoul will meet me on the pages
Gracelessly supplanting annoying Magus

If I could channel the colour blue
I would discover something new
Nothing pretty
But something vaguely true
A safe space, in a sinecure
To be thoroughly sequestered
Producing nothing.

Just like dried apricots

I wake up in the middle of the night with restlessness
that seems to meander wordless
or alternately etches upon my fevered brain an eloquence
surrendering neither to pen nor keyboard

 what do I do?

Sentences yielding as I hurriedly transcribe--nothing
Words are such pliable complacent forms of expression
Awaiting as empty vessels to be shaped upon a wheel
But clumsy strokes with a sledgehammer breaks epistles
That I would craft as spirals of intellect

Thoughts that appear perfectly formed vanish into empty pages.
Daring me to imprison them in words.
I grasp and cannot
I really dislike quicksilver conceptions
Thoughts that vanish when you reach for them.
The sort that just glide away impossibly slowly
Yet never really disappearing,
stranding me on the brink of some profound gaping hole.

After all I just like to ask questions.
Collette said the pleasure--it is in the asking.
Answers are much too pedestrian, just like dried apricots
Does that make me petulant?
Here I am filled again with angst or restlessness.

Recklessness whispers her secrets to me
 Mindful temptation
Accepting fire, do I doom the gift giver
A lioness astride a cheese grater no more?
Is my intellectual acumen reduced to the size
of the venus aperture at last?