mordicai caeli (mordicai) wrote,
mordicai caeli
mordicai

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notebook paper.

the dry, almondy taste of wanting someone (as opposed to having someone, a proposition i've always prefered) drifts up from the first few pages of the houellebecq book. i'm sitting, waiting for a tardy 2 train, soaking in the tang of it, my skin flaking away like the leaf wrapper of a good cigar. finally the two shows up & i walk briskly down to the end of the platform, sticking my finger inbetween the pages to mark the spot i'm at. earlier, i heard shouts & screams from down the tunnel, brooklynward. i couldn't tell if they were real or imagined, & no one else in the station reacted one way or the other. before i get into the train-car, i peek down the side of the gaping passage, wondering if i can see anything to clear up these lingering doubts one way or another. i start thinking about the hidden marble cemetary, discovered last night thanks to the fickle vagaries of the weekend subway schedule. another urban stonehenge, throbbing only a little less strongly than the bog troll in prospect park. but it was night then, & magic always works better at night (an unarguable fact). at franklin avenue, a woman with a wheeled tote bag climbs up the service stairs out of the inky tunnel, comes out of the dark, stumbling over the tread-dots of the yellow-stripe safety line.

a few people in the train are shouting about david copperfield, weirdly synchonized with sarah's visit. one of the guys, a thuggish hispanic guy, arm crawling with tattoos (i decided he is latin yakuza, for fun), can't remember david blaine's name, so i supply it for him. they get off at sterling street. at this point, i start losing focus, losing linear narrative. i'm thinking about how i bought my thiry-day unlimited ride metrocard with transit checks this morning. about the guy across from me's inexplicable mickey mouse nascar jacket. a woman carrying a bag of chocolates is reading about the pope's death in an old daily news, & i start laughing about it. my hand starts to cramp up from writing & i start thinking about lactic acid & electron transport, & how i'm neglecting reading my book. suddenly i'm remembering the unpleasent smell of cigarette smoke & fish from yesterday's chinatown adventures. goblintown adventures, my eyes seeing overlay on the close streets. after a few moments i look up, suddenly. nothing has happened, but there is a new shadow on the brushed steel of the doors, a figure in a robe of seaweed & tentacles. a head like two entwined manta-rays. a rorschach angel of deep places. he wasn't there a second ago. the train fits & starts, like always, epilepticly braking into the brooklyn college/flatbush avenue station.
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