New York commuter horror during the changing seasons |
Grid Ride grinding gears go gears left outside with iron and rain bike chained to a rusty fence, cracked brittle wet hands rub dirt from a lock formed from dust, years of peddling, ugly falls, teeth scraped across concrete ground the cold cusp of winter wind starting up we move underground. We’re all stuck under the floor, we’re stuck and chapped and shaking It’s cold underground, waiting for a silver surfer to screech stop swallow us every station fills with groans, waiting Late for our travels, we’ll be late and ugly offering nothing but our souls, worth nothing but the dirt from peddling for years to get here arriving broken Covered in dust, dried dirt cracked teeth nails I can’t take anymore pedaling, dirty, waiting, shoving, squeezing, screeching, swallowed My eyes tear my gut jumps everything from my belly held in my throat Gorged eyes, swallowing breath like water filling my pores with the rancid residue of underground resting on the plush skin of my face. Another wave up the spine My innards want to rip through their membrane become part of the wind smacking dust mixing tears and sweat in my pores grinding gears and barrels of souls, barrels of souls grinding bodies We trudge along above and underground riding the grid wheezing. |