H.M. on the bus to work

“A mini skirt approaches
Hoisting herself into a sitting position
Opposite his own.

‘I would follow the line to laughter,
But the battle might turn Grimm.”

The bus trip always took the same streets, made the same turns at the same corners, and the same stops at the same signs. According to H.M.’s watch, the time variation was almost never more than ten minutes. But his experience, more and,more often, was quite different.

He would drift mentally, in and out between what he saw and what that prompted in his imagination. “Dream like”, doesn’t really capture the experience. It was more like watching and then entering into a movie….going back and forth from a seat in the bus, a seat in the audience as it were, into and out of the made up film playing in front of his mind’s eye. As a child, listening to fairy tales, he experienced much the same kind of thing. He would close his eyes and the story would begin to play itself out, leading him into a dreaming sleep.

“The voices come unbidden
As they always do,
Summoned perhaps from someone
else’s script.

Boarding party and grappling hooks,
Pirates of the Main,
Vivid as in a life dream lived,
Synapse stumbling,bodily numbing
His smile crooks itself across his face.

‘She is reclining down below,
The Ambassador’s daughter,
Fearful, you must know,
Of all the noise and clatter.’

H.M. Opened his eyes as a young woman made her way to a seat on the bus. Seeing attractive young women his age riding the bus was almost his only “interaction” with them.

He remembered nursery school. He didn’t really fit anywhere, not with the boys on the jungle gym or racing around the playground, and not with the girls holding hands and jumping rope.

He could deal with the boys..a shrug or two would do…but the girls were more difficult…he felt a warm attraction to them… an imagined invitation coupled to an apprehension…the kind of “don’t go there” warning he heard in the fairytales…”beware…beware..the woods are calling…don’t stare.”

She noticed him watching her, and smiled. Opening the book she held in her hand she began to read. Watching her, he felt an impulse to get up and sit beside her. Instead, he coughed.

“Stifle that grunt, runt.
It’s a frightening sound.”

“The ambassador’s daughter, you say?
A left over from last week’s war movie?
Why then I’ll bite the hand that fed me
By God,
And have onto some.”

The mini skirt starts to read philosophic
matters.
Libraries and erudition rise
Within the shadow of sexuality.

The masked poet, devouring in the
dark,
Lunges, leaving his silver bullet
As a promise deep inside her.

She smiles,
But the Hunched Man is haunted
By the vaunted claims of heroes.

“Let the whole damn town burn.
We can blame it on the Christians.”

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One comment

  1. Who’s this Girl?

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