There is nothing that I’m able to say. That’s what’s sad.
Left unheard. Stay unsaid.
What’s the point?
Walking aimlessly down Broadway,
down past church and funeral pyre,
by Jeff Glovsky
My train each day is a filthy ride.
Harried passengers, captively feigning aplomb, have no choice… The alternative is meltdown.
In the tunnel, wind rumbles, belches, swirls. At the end, finally, light.
My train arrives.
A clock face smiles genially as it marches into sunset.
Racing backwards down the slope of Time, the face stops glowing, cracks appear; it winds itself less regularly… Forgets to sound reminders now and then… Alarming.
Increasingly, out of sync.
In NEW YORK, before loud hordes pollute each day, and in MUNICH, before tourists take dumps on the canvas — and in any place I find myself with a café or diner open early enough — I avail myself of public solitude.
Some words on ‘mornings’… by Jeff Glovsky
* * *
Not to be confused with
a short Story by Jglo
In the Midtown bar, the blonde ignores surroundings, blithely chatting on a cellphone, like she’s home alone, or might as well be.
Unlike she, I’ve got no one to talk to. Sitting with the gloaming outside, loud annoying noise within. My head, the music bleeding, pounds right through me, thoughts (not there) receding…
Empty. I look up, and down. The room spins.
No one hears me fall.
I’d been confused about this “movement” for some time – The sometimes lazy, often fearful, hyper-emotional misfits demanding the coddling of their helicoptered childhoods to continue well past sell-by dates, into their collective twenties and thirties.
A weird skinny lumberjack beard or two later, these (wo)men-children have been, somewhat insultingly, labeled “Twee”…