12:48 PM Thursday, June 07, 2012 Blame it on your closest friends, loath their indifference but keep them apprised for later blame. Spiral into sleepless torment, boasting of headaches and false diagnoses, ripping hearts from the chests of mothers, where blood burns like gasoline.I boarded a subway from midtown to the Dominican Republic for to see Miguel Figueroa.
I do not know Mr. Figueroa. I do not know who he is or why I have his credit card, but when I saw his name I got off the plane and found the closest subway. I typed his name into a commercial search engine, finding that "Miguel Figueroa" is a common name assigned to numerous human beings.
The aeroplane which I left was vast and spacious, more like the waiting room at an airport than a flying machine. But it was a plane. It flew in the air, a cylindrical tube of people shooting through the skies in ways that would make the ancients ill or homicidal to contemplate.
The trip to the Dominican was necessary, though I did not know why. On account of the dueling urgencies I found myself ambivalent about the trip. Mother wanted to go, but she was unavailable. She had some conflicting plans in Los Angeles, which is the only connection I have between myself and the name of Figueroa. I stayed at a hotel in Los Angeles on Figueroa Street, a fact which I never remembered.
I expected to go by myself, for 10 days. The boarding process for the subway was extraordinary for a city subway, albeit one designed for international travel. I went through the boarding process, travelling down numerous escalators, some of them semi-circular, most of them long and very narrow. I got to my seat on the subway and immediately thought about leaving. Nothing about the seating was uncomfortable, I just did not want to go to the Dominican Republic. I had other things to do, and as I looked through my bag and pockets I discovered I had no money, no credit cards, and no MetroCard. Evidently this subway ticketed like commuter trains and buses, gathering tickets after the train leaves the station.
I thought about how that would work, how I could verify that I was who I said I was, and that the use of scraps of paper as tickets was but pablum in the logistical theater of international subway travel. Without cash I knew I'd have to have a credit card and ID to purchase and then verify the purchase of the subway fare. All I had was an unusable credit card belonging to Miguel Figueroa, whoever that was.
I had to get off the subway. I gathered my things, which included a bag with unsatisfactory amounts of clothing for a long trip. The clothing included my girlfriend's black panties, and not much else. I caressed the black panties and punned to myself about having "baggage".
I found the escalators, and on the exit from the subway encountered some moving sidewalks. These moving sidewalks were all going my way, and it appeared that other passengers were using these sidewalks to board planes. They treaded against the motion of the sidewalk, and some of the folks made a grand old time of it, considering it ironic, and hilarious, that the mundane task of boarding a plane met with this conspicuously fouled up conflict.
I made it back to the airport terminal, where two women who worked for either the MTA or the TSA stopped me. I told them I couldn't take this subway, and that I intended to go home. They responded with prepared doubletalk, gibberish words of no substance but of a joyful, engaging sound that I wish I could replicate. This was some kind of MTA or TSA trick designed to fool me, to hypnotize me into re-boarding the subway to the Dominican Republic where I would meet the mysterious Miguel Figueroa. I saw their game immediately, though. It was the same sort of lawyerly double-talk that blossoms when you call to cancel satellite TV or other subscription service. Their words seemed to bounce off each other without moving, like the in-between metal balls smashed like gritted teeth by the swinging metal balls at the ends Newton's cradle.
I felt no obligation to continue listening to their rhythmically vacuous speech. They continued juggling words as I walked away, uncontested. No physical force was used. Only words.
I wandered the airport a little longer. I had no ID, no credit cards of my own, and no evidence that I existed.
We disike that term, "Success." It requires failure to exist, but we do not know how or why to fail. Success is a skinny, paunchy man wearing outsized underpants, tempting himself with congratulatory questions feathered with unnumbered treasures of a nemesis' failure. Victory laps at a trough of influenza, wraps its legs around dangerous backwash, roars its feelings at a brittle sunrise at which we stare, confused, unsure of the solar system's meaning, we are unsettled by armies of inaccurate timepieces. Handwriting on ancestral walls rig last year's exploded failures with infinitesimal microphones, boring through bleeding tundra, braving starvation with schooled expertise, heroic discipline, fleecing shallow lakes for reversible indignation, scraping earthly terrains of boneless litter.
invisible tantrums and hungry blurbs of phony radio stars drop the microphone into a bucket of tan sing your song of hollow sin, positionless robots in a copied world, foiling uncroaked violence with rigorous billiard balls bigger than your planets. laughter and blunder roar from behind the fences of your yard. travelling like messages in bottles you hear the content but can not make sense of the joy. this fear does not squeeze at your heart. not yet, for you are young. dintless chips of soil lavishing bunches of fleece, plugless coaxial grab bag of a naked bullet on a pedestal, frowning, slamming eyelids, frowning, hunting for thunder, nonse hornets and hogwarts, mis-calculated memories, hourless definitions for thunder and jamb, lost coordinates on a cramping map of repetitive dream
dented chips of soil lavish wads of fleece upon an unplugged coaxial grab bag of naked bullets on a frowning pedestal, frowning, clowning, eyelids slamming, bullets drowning, hunting for thunder where violence breeds nonse hornets and hogwarts, mis-calculated memories, hourglass definitions of thunder and jamb, lost coordinates on cramped maps of repetitive dreamPANTS AND HATE PANTS HATE GREATNESS JAIL BAKE ROOSTERS