This About the City...

dose one and why?: on our perpetual bus ride home, slowly, we were all muzzle moutheded and rushing ice cream to the fridge at the crib. it's the same old new moon, gagging on the abc so on that our colons have for us. nnow back to the bus: enter three blacks. a couple plus another; his half finished hair: white yarn extensions of herself. his face painted rainbow and bags on his hands turned inside outside inside out. the couple, in the bus belly air of punched out time, squirm with a static-starting laugh. they laugh (ha ha ha ha ha), standing for some nose-bitten high school status, sandblasted heterosexual samples on a slide of glass. don't they know you can't make somebody on the verge of such self discovery feel uncomfortable? this whole busload of hydrogen, carbon, and secrets, umbilical doorbell to a-frame attachment, property rights, poker face of the globe maker's daughter, the whole empty zipped whore house secrets, secrets, all coming out of its face. full-faced mask with i-don't-want-to-say-soul bottomed eyeholes. step out of your face and back onto the carbon based bus you're on. we got off the bus at 29th and broadway, same place we got on. it kept going. nothing happened. we wrote it down to give you eye holes. fuck the blindfold. how much can a bus coast? open your mouth or get off the bus. we got off to save our groceries feeling like we should have stayed for three more stops. "a man was died, a baby born, and heard... a plane flew over broadway."