Monday, March 25, 2013

Bus Crackers - Section VII

Sometimes a silence is necessary. Without it the mind has trouble speaking. There's impulse, persuasion, and influence, but often the traveler is found lost in the static electricity of street lights and madness. I've never been on a subway, but I imagine I would write the best poetry. All of the passengers would become honesty, and for once the static might mean something. There's always another a path. A path I never chose but one that got you here, and rather than ride subways  I walk there. There's meaning but probably no end. I've already died four times, and maybe I'll get seven more. Steve McQueen is bullshit.

The other passengers looked out the windows as if the ranting was not happening. They clutched their purses and fanny packs while scooting as far away from the man as possible. He was once a chemist, but his current affliction was not related. He sat at the back of the bus. Sweat poured down his face. He looked greyed and green and sick.  A couple hours prior he was on his way to the cinema, but could not seem to gather the will to signal the driver to stop. He felt as though he was experiencing early-onset dementia. He began scratching what looked like a rash obsessively. He was not a stranger to losing his temper with friends and family, but screaming like a raving lunatic from the back of the bus was momentarily noticed as a previously uncharted hobby. While everything freezes, the sun flickers on and off, and the chemist continues on.

Bus driver where are you driving us and how did I get on this bus? The world will not wait for me. We live in daring and beautiful times. Once this man was forced to sit in my seat, and now the white man obliges him to drive this awkward and arguably inefficient vessel. 

The bus driver had enough, "Sir, please quiet down. If you don't calm down, I'm going to have to ask you to get off the bus." The driver was using his trained voice. The chemist showed no regard for consequences of the bus driver, as many often do not. The chemist began bleeding as he continued to scratch his rash.

We are but merely an ocean of cells. Dying and giving birth over and over again. Every cell, the entire container in a new phase swimming throughout history. 

 The driver began pulling the bus over. "That's it. I've had it." The driver pulls up to the curb, places the bus in park, the doors swing open, he takes off his seat belt, and begins walking toward the back of the bus. "Look buddy, I don't know what you're damn problem is today, but you have to go now." The driver stopped within an arm's length of the chemist. Finally, silent for a moment, the chemist's eyes raced with blazoned energy. They were bloodshot with a ring of gold around the iris. While a psychedelic could be to blame, it was much more so a symptom rather than a hallucination. "You have to get off the bus right now." The driver realized his passenger was also bleeding. "What the fuck is wrong with you buddy?" Sugar and impulse. We should always be cleaning. Always be cleaning. Raferty must die. Hell is merely the manifestation of men tormented by their own skin. The foul breath of their ancestors permeates their ears in sleep and school. They die only once. While most of the passengers pretended that the incident was not occurring, an old lady, her grandchild sitting next to her, begins to stand up. "Bus driver I would like to get off the bus please." "Please hold on ma'am, just sit down. I'm going to remove this gentleman and we will be on our way." The old lady did not get off the bus, but continued to watch the situation intently while motioning for her grandchild to stand up. The bus driver stepped toward the chemist hunched over, and with meanness began speaking quietly in the chemist's ear. He could hear the chemist panting. "Look motherfucker, yur gonna get off this bus right now. And if yur not going to do it on your own, I'm gonna throw you out on yur head. Do you under-fucking-stand me, cracker?" The driver stands back up straight staring at the chemist and hoping to obtain compliance. The chemist felt the fleeting urge to say something, as a boil began to form on the chemist's face. Grunt. "Alright you gross motherfucker I'm done with you." The driver took his stance and grabbed the chemist by his non-bleeding arm and a bunched up ball of chest flannel. The driver began to pull the chemist out of his seat. Suddenly, the old lady and her grandchild screamed and quickly shuffled off the bus, as the cracker showed his teeth.

(draft)

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