unexpected deer

he stood up and sauntered toward the back as the bus turned and bellied
up to his stop, his eye caught by a couple of young men in baseball caps,

of course, slouched in the seats by the rear exit door. one of them clutching

a huge refillable plastic mug, his tasered gaze too docile to focus, slurping

an eyeful of floor, his body tilted by the weight of his pillowy friend, leaning

against him, a playdough snowman with an enormous oval head, gently placed 

on his shoulder like a brown egg, while a cigarette wilted between his fat

affluent fingers. he stood there waiting, longing to look, magnetized by their

tired tenderness, as if he'd just spotted deer someplace you'd never expect

to see them, suddenly still and quiet, wanting to stay, wanting to be near them,

knowing they may bolt with any blink, as if their presence was too delicate

to remain, as if you could only look longer if your gaze was as soft as them,

not wanting to interrupt such an exquisite display, he makes knowing eye-

contact with a coworker, a savage gentleman in a sports coat and a red dress

shirt, waiting as well to disembark, they glance at the young men and smirk,

exchanging a wink and a grin, and then the little green light above them glows,

and they push the doors open and without a word and depart for their separate

saturdays.

erasure of a review by ben ratliff of a performance by manuel agujetas

if you have any interest in the void, Manuel Agujetas is your man

everybody says i have the face of a dead man
he sang in dire, unaccompanied spanish,
his chant sounding ancient, blurred by rasp.
it's what happens when life isn't going well
he sat on a chair, staring forward, hands on knees,
eyes deep like creases, an old scar running
a singer of the old, defined by rhythm and mode.
tense, shaking, sobbing, used-
he shouted, and the sounds retreated
lonely, piercing, whining,
and he ended nearly every song the same way
abruptly rising, sweeping his arms
apart to indicate that the finish was total
and then he sat back down
and called out for another,
and started singing again,
slightly bent, clapping and looking rueful.
often he just pointed a finger as he sang,
his violence controlled, but at certain moments he
flapped his forearms in a ritual of anguish
his vibrato more pronounced, a constant deep throb
as if he were singing a whole range of notes at once
everything punitively sad
each group of words separated by deep and complete pause
one song told a story, a prostitute who wore a crucifix.
everytime she took off her clothes, the crucifix would cry.
after a while he pointed to his throat and said
this is not a machine
and two songs later, he was done. 




http://www.nytimes.com/2012/05/24/arts/music/manuel-agujetas-at-elebash-recital-hall.html

confessional

i step on board the midafternoon bus heading downtown, packed in spite of the warmth that my skin distrusts, i grab a gray vinyl strap and hang on, staring out the window as we cross the river, struck dumb by the brilliant blue sky. the bus is rowdy. it's an entirely different crowd that rides in the afternoon compared to the morning commute that's so much more solemn than any catholic mass i was forced as a child to kneel for. it's like we're tranquilized animals caught in the wild, being shipped to the zoo, barely conscious and grim, as if heading into a battle we are certain to lose. there's something about a bus that can make you feel like a prisoner stuck in a cell with a loquacious inmate, infected with conversations that you have no choice but to follow and attempt to make sense of. i look down at the loud, fake old lady with the tammy faye aqua eyeshadow and the dyed, shoepolish black hair (i was in the army once, when i was young, and i can't help but think of shoepolish and buffing boots until they smile  whenever i see someone with dyed black hair) and her clanking neon bracelets coiling up the jiggling flesh of her bare arm as she recites the lyrics to madonna's lucky star for the dumpling in sweatpants sitting next to her, who just told her and us, that her daughter is addicted to meth again and won't call her or share her latest number. she tells the whole story in a dull, flat butter knife monotone, only her moist eyes revealing the grief, like a beautiful car sparkling in a drab dump of a showroom, both of them pure as a mountain stream, weeping as we enter the impersonal city, weeping while i hang there from a gray vinyl strap.