By Jack T Tumult
The bus tumbles through Queens with the haste of a morning drink.
The woman in front of me has a v-neck cut to her blouse, revealing a battlefield of skin to me: a rough terrain between her neck and upper back covered in moles that seem as seismic as earthquakes swelling along a forgotten coast, they tremble at every speed bump.
I watch them shaking, transfixed by their balletic chaos. They tapdance on her flesh as we’re crossing the bridge.
I wonder where I find myself.
I am tired as only a beast is tired.
Soon I’ll be home like a diamond.
Soon I’ll have a romantic notion in a sleep that seems to have been humming for decades. A lush, wondrous slumber, between a tallboy and the lazy high of a spliff rolled by crooked hands. A vagabond miracle and then syncope and I will fall like love stretching across a dreaming California.
I watch the woman in front of me like a zealot with an explanation.
The moles are mines, little mushrooms sprouting up.
It’s a spectacular audition!
But then there’s monotony, ambivalence, and agitation, and it’s like angels shot out of the sky like ducks, and the smell of bourbon mixes with the gunpowder in the air, letting the dogs have their moment.
And I’m racing home.
There’s a bump in the road. The commuters soar like a tremulous statistic, up, momentarily weightless, wayfaring honestly. Each face asking for clemency, down a hole, each tooth as warm as a penny.
The road resembles the amphetamines that lead to public cunnilingus. The road is paved and unscrupulous, a heaven rusting.
I request my stop, and soon I will pass on like nothing has arrived.
Jack is a damned writer floating through the streets of NYC, and sometimes you can catch him performing poetry throughout different venues in the city like a drunken ghost; a few sweet, a few bombastic lines, and then he disappears into the ether. You can check out his work on his site, a short film he wrote, and updates about future readings on Facebook