Canyons of Glass #1:

Midtown Morning

by Brian Jude

I close the required text of my omnibus education
As I emerge from the underwater passage
And Ascend a spiral inclination
Only to follow the crowds down, down, down.
Businessmen, working women, yuppies,
Dope addicts, single teen parents,
The elderly, babes and children,
And me.
All in this Port Authority terminal.
A wretched hive of scum and villainy indeed!
I walk into the so-called room of rest
With all of its regulars inside socializing,
And I decide that it is too unclean
To deposit my own filthy human waste.
As I turn to exit, he enters:
A man with a pock-marked nose
Dripping with brick-red blood,
Covering his fat nose and tan overcoat,
Looking like some sadistic expressionist painting
Made by the most perfect artist;
Mother Nature herself.
And the employed men who support the walls
In their red overalls,
Laughing the midtown morning away,
Pose a single question:
"Hey man, were you in an accident or something?"
But the man kept to himself
And I leave thinking, "What did happen to that guy?"
Of coarse it was an accident,
Unless he had tread a path of self-destruction.
And of all the places he could have chosen to go,
He chose this place,
Not to a police officer, not to a doctor,
But to a smelly sink of yellow stone
With low water pressure
And hot air dryers.
And everyone else walks around
With their noses to the ground
Not paying attention to what goes on around them.
And I smile at Rogers and Hammerstien
As I continue on
Jaywalking along Majestic, St. James,
Broadhurst, Helen Hayes,
Schubert, Charley o's,
Pasrt Sony Astor Plaza
Into the land of Sony Jumbotron,
Minolta,
And Pepsi, Pepsi, Pepsi.
And as my eyes continue skyward
I see the sign in lights
That once lit up the night
Announcing a new year: 1995.
1995!
The age to be alive
In a place where no one really lives true lives.
I walk under Rush Limbaugh
And continue toward my destination
Above Un Deux Trois
Where born-again bats fly about the belfrey.
As I enter the box
A custodial engineer pats his own back,
Admiring his mint-water mop bucket.
Yet when I return
He had abandoned it
Alone to descend with me
And as I read the graffiti
On the plastic-wood walls
I wonder, "What the heck is 'Fee Snath?'
Oh. 'Feel Smooth.' Ah, nevermind."

I walk out into the dark street
And I turn the corner,
Absorbing the aroma of fried onions and Halal meat,
With the cold wind biting at my gloveless fingers
And my poorly protected chest,
Yet still catching the warm upward breezes
From the by-passing underground worm train,
Walking through the thick white steam
That poured through the holes in the street
Like Satan's old stogie,
Down the Avenue of the Americas.
The Americas!
An avenue dedicated to the millions of people
Living in the western hemisphere!
Huh!
Meanwhile an ever changing and partly unreadable sign
Keeps track of our national debt
And I realize that nothing keeps track of our debt to humainity
Or to nature.
I walk though sporadic sunshine and copious shade
Of vertical cement clouds,
Down a canyon of glass,
And into a store.
I hold the door open for a man who hesitates.
I wait, then enter
And he says, "Thanks anyway, man."
As I shop, the doorbell sings its song:
"Ding-dong, ding-dong, dingdong, DING-dong."
When I am through
I notice the wave of a dozen Lady Liberties
Keeping vigil over the front and rear
Of every automobile.
The ground is full of butts
And fliers advertising furniture.
And I think again how we live
In a place where no one really lives true lives-
Where people walk when the sign says don't,
Where people should smile, but won't.

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