Friday

Most alive and most aware on the trip to work and the trip home from work.

Thursday

I've been letting the crowd of rushing commuters stampede around the subway station without me. I just stand back and wait and let them crush each other.

Sunday

If you took out my brain and spray painted it white and punted it up into the air, with enough hang time, it would look a little like a cloud floating up there, but then it would drink down on you like a ton of brick flavored admonishments. My brain thinks I know somethin – something separate – like down in my spinal cord there is some hairy goo clog of cognizance.

There is good news about thoughts and thinking, good news for short thought thinkers: There are still many pairs of words you can put together and put quotation marks around and search at google - that will bring you nothing back. In other words: There are still thoughts conveyable by two words that have not already been thought and keyed in and published on the net. Fertile soil.

Saturday

One time my dad dropped my mom and me off at the grocery store, and something wild happened. We were walking up to the entrance of the store, and this guy came running out of the store with some stuff under his arm. He was a young guy. There was a cop running right after him. My mom started praying for the guy who was running away, "Lord, please let him get away. Lord, please let him get away." My dad was driving away from the store, having just dropped us off. As he was going down the road, the runner had made it across the parking lot and across the road, and the cop was right behind him. The cop was a pretty young guy too. My dad was driving away from the store right as the cop was crossing the road. The cop ran right out in front of my dad's car, and he slipped on the asphalt and fell because of his slick-bottomed cop shoes. My dad had to jam the brakes to avoid hitting him. Why was my mom praying for the runner to escape? The runner reminded her very much of Brad, my brother. Why did that runner remind her of Brad? That is a story I'll have to tell you some day.

Tuesday

This morning on the train I was sitting behind this woman who was reading a book. I looked over her shoulder, like a jerk, to see what she was readin. Her head blocked most of my view of the book. I could only see the words on the edge of the page. I’d like to report them to you, because it was one of those cases where those limited, visible words seemed to tell their own little marginal story, or they constituted their own little poem. So the following words were visible to me, and I was able to write them down quickly before I had to get off the train. I’ll type them line by line here:

“ . . . and she . . .”
“ . . . returned and it was . . .”
“ . . . Polaroid . . .”
“ . . . just as she was . . .”
“ . . . and secures the . . .”
“ . . . who is busy ring- . . .”
“ . . . –looking young woman. . .”