some orange

Still not sure what that card that was served to me with the homemade orange/carrot cocktail said. Well, thanks anyway.

underground forest

Whitehall subway station

2nd Avenue Blues

Station Singer

Under Union Square this woman ripped it up with her voice, even if she didn't bust holes in the walls she managed to melt the dry clump of dust I'd become into one of the living. If there are seismographs rigged up anywhere here in NYC to detect motions in the earth's crust the subways must always swing the needles, just as locomotives like this woman's voice would. I wondered what you would call the little things in her voice that mount it to your being like barbs - what are all those little points of impact? You could call them vibrations, but haven't we all heard that word enough? I thought maybe they were seisma, but then I read that seisma is a verb meaning to stand still. There was nothing still about her voice, which flew out of her like a flock of birds startled by a dog. Seisma could only apply to the half circle of immobilized commuters, eh, let's call them transients, stationary as fence posts around her, stilled by whatever it was that happened when the woman opened her mouth and her arms to sing about summer, whatever it was that told us home was with her.

They're not oscilla, small masks swaying under tree limbs during festivals in Ancient Greek times, although they too call to mind the play of waves. Perhaps it's best to say they're pistons that hammer in the furnace of the woman's talent, which doesn't seem to have any brakes.

New Stop on F Line

Well now, that's more like it. I new stop on the F line. Sounds like a very fine neighborhood, full of prospects.

Lost Keys

I think street etiquette dictates that if you come across a lost key you leave it where you found it, what else could you do, it's not worth much for scrap metal, unless forged of solid gold. In which case it might be too soft to turn a stubborn lock.

This morning I saw keys on the ground by the fence at Beth Elohim looking like they opened a bike lock and left them there. A little later I saw this one that someone had carefully placed in a gap in the tile at a downtown Brooklyn subway stop I don't usually wind up in. It looks like sleeping beauty lying there, waiting for her perfect match. Maybe it's yours? Is it the key to your heart? If so, I'll tell you where I saw it.

Maybe one of the bits of tile in the nearby mosaic belongs to you. Meanwhile, pieces of the white tile below it look like icebergs deteriorating.

What is a Nimrod?

Is it a good thing or a bad thing? Better or worse than a douchebag?