Poetry — December 16, 2014 10:26 — 1 Comment

Wednesday, on the Subway – Jason Sears

“Let’s pretend to be French Impressionists,” you said. So we


We drank wine from an emptied bottle of seltzer. We kissed red,

Jolly Rancher

Kisses in a crowded bar playing bluegrass, and afterwards,

pressed against

The stairs of Abyssinia, beneath waves of Waterloo Sunset:


Only later, lying on the high pile rug in my apartment, would I

Dare to trace my fingers along the towered eaves of your pagoda


Spine, step over your black lace bra strap, ascend

each vertebra,


Wrap my hand around the base of your warm neck, and futilely

Attempt to decode secret messages from the buzzing hums


Inside your brain stem. We stole thirty minutes

of what could possibly

be called sleep,

but it struck me more like a pastiche:

a furiously dashed

oil-streak flashback

dipped in lightning.


Thursday came in an instant.

I still don’t know

How we made it to the subway

in time for work.


Jason Sears is a writer from Philadelphia who hasn't yet been arrested for trespassing. He writes songs about handsome ghosts and aspires to solve a Rubik's Cube one-handed.

One Comment

  1. Sheila Meltzer says:


    I almost wished I had been there, but then I remembered — I just was, for a couple of dreamy minutes, and hangover-free! Excuse me, while I return …


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What am I?

Bioluminescent eye
That sees by the shine
Of its own light. Lies

Blind me. I am the seventh human sense
And my stepchild,

Scientists can't find me.

Januswise I make us men;
Was my image then—

Remind me:

The awful fall up off all fours
From the forest
To the hours…

Tick, Tock: Divine me.

-- Richard Kenney