And to all…

It is midnight on Line 9
And for Christ’s sake
It smells of eggnog and manure
Bums are there
Happy enough and twice drunk
For the occasion
Stupor prevails though
In a few hours
The last reveler wisely gone
Darkness will again
Spell its name
Yesterday Tomorrow
All the same
Oblivion most likely
And Line 9
Rumbling its way
With us all hoping

Continue reading


A jungle tale

Line 9 before Christmas
A young woman hugging
A huge stuffed tiger
I mean huge
As big as she was
Couldn’t be for herself
Could it?
A school girl
Walked into the car
Was soon mesmerized by this tiger
Bigger than her
Couldn’t get her eyes off of it
Then her thoughts drifted away
To someplace only she knew
She stayed there quite a while
Came her station
She smiled the dream away
And got off the train

Continue reading

Chapped lips

There’s a certain time of night
When Line 9 is unforgiving
Take those five dog-tired Pakies
Heading to the sad part of town
Whispering among themselves
About dreams
That never were
You know that
Their only destination
Is slumlords country
One of them
Young and not hardened yet
Is delicately
Spreading Nivea cream
On his face
Winter wind
So bitter

Continue reading

One boy, two girls

Busy evening on Line 9
Gotta be standing among
All three of them
Speaking French
With a different accent
So they have to speak in French
To understand each other
One girl could be Italian
One girl German
The guy from Croatia
Or somewhere East
They look like
Would be architects
Studying here
Then again
What do I know
The girls smell good though
Their breasts staring at me

Continue reading

Taking out the gimp

The taxi driver didn’t give me a chance to say anything. “La Zona rosa?” he asked. I saw all the Christian stuff on his dashboard so I said “sure, why not.” I had arrived in Mexico City earlier during the day, checked in a cheap hotel in some far periphery. In the evening, I was thinking about eating somewhere since, being in Mexico City, I might as well. So some Indian girl at the office called for a cab. And that’s how it went.

“Bonjour,” I said and I knew the cab driver would have a story to tell his wife next morning. He seemed to like that I was French although I spoke no Spanish. He kept saying: “Zona Rosa, good, good,” each time winking at me in his rear-view mirror.

Continue reading