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August 5, 2022August 6, 2022

Context

i was born at ten in the morning 
on a monday in april, 
and somewhere, somebody was hungover 
and an hour late for work.

thirty seven years later 
in the middle of times square 
i cartwheel under pink neon,
and let the sunshine storm away.

my last twenty gets spit into the cubby and 
i fold it calmly like the wallet it wears.

past the bars of the entrance the entrance is packed,
the long march of boots is sequestered upstairs.

one day it will all line up.
i check the nonsense 
straighten my tie, cough loudly, 
jump the turnstile.
and descend.

+

in a world of cold subway seats and
endless waiting faces,
it’s easy to feel like a prisoner of one’s mistakes.

i tap a clean shoe between wheel depressions
and think in clicks and screams.

this current evening seems to be a test, or
a long shot at best, radiating. 
now is when love should be becoming
more of a shared experience 
and less of a knowledge of the sum of the parts
but all of our dinners and all of her parties
don’t even add up to parallel hearts

being an outsider used to feel wild
and free but my BA in college and my minor
denial seem silly when up against slick recruitees

i can’t compete with her friends
and their beards
their lofts and their artistic statements
but maybe i can walk away 

on the train
people sit with their bodies and their phones
and pass out and pass around, indifferent to this.
i wring my hands, a bottle of wine 
between my feet;
normalcy is a mask but so is skin
so is society.

the future seems impossible. 
all the seams i wish i’d mended properly
fall apart under
rush hour scrutiny

paying little attention 
but to the unknown;
the unknown here being a new pattern,
a set of patterns, running,
and never looking back or side to side
but straight into her book with her fire

behold: the unequal confidence of a life lived
open to desire.

her finger on the bottom corner of the page
twitching, flicking, nervous, 
ready to turn

no cage, no sweater, no passion is here
just bodies in ether, bound to appear in
the acoustic yelp of showtime!
and sweat, some of it hot enough.

my deduction, off from work then, 
painted nails under the buzz,
having been ready for the teacher to appear
but the teacher is struck dumb

everybody sees the way the light hits 
she reaches into a pocketbook
sneaks a look and makes a list
one more line before the final lurch 
towards decision. the coin’s been in the air so long
it casts a shadow on the rails

she calls it 
tails

+

her nametag howled into the early evening
as i left the train and climbed to your apartment
a summit i would not reach. 

and it was all right;
everything was all right
from your smile to your heartache to your shoes.

and now you have an excuse but you don’t want
nor need
an excuse do you?

if you look you can see a lifetime lived
in echo and buzz and tile.
every seven stops you have a new set of passengers
and every seven stops you’re a completely different person
did you know that?

each of us is a cell
the subway car is blood
the tunnels are veins
the earth is body
the animal kingdom is the brain
that does the automatic tasks 
without complaining or being aware enough to complain
and the humans are the mind
imagining, wondering, watching as hot bodies rust

the other planets are other bodies
under whose influence we must fall

the sun is the love that lasted longer
than it had any right to.

 

Author Bio

J.E. O’Leary

J.E. O’Leary (he/him) is a poet, musician, and visual artist from NYC. For over 20 years, he has been bringing his words and music to NYC’s stages, festivals, subway platforms, and gallery walls. His latest poetry collection, What a Future, was released December 2020. His writing and music can be found at www.sunshineandwind.com.
 
This year, I’ve had work accepted by New Plains Review, Wild Roof, Something Involving a Mailbox, Prometheus Dreaming, Dead Skunk Mag, Drunk Monkeys, and Pinky Thinker Press.

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