How hungry next time?

This crazy place where gold sits in plain view beside an ideal

And a hungry man steals the ideal

Makes from it a simple piece and wears it proudly in the streets

For everyone to admire.

.

How hungry must he be to let gold hang from someone else’s neck

To leave it on the field

To let it gild marble walls and lofty altars

And languish in vaults?

.

How hungry to toss together rickety foundations of refuse

And mounting them, raise a naked fist

To a smiling sky

That showers golden stardust on the sated

And leaves the famished to die?

.

How hungry must he be, next time walls fall

To leave gold to the rubble

And build something of value

Beneath the smiling sky?

.

Jason Anderson, 2014

Prologue

So if you’re a writer, tell me a story, he said.

I’m afraid I can’t.

Can’t you? Did you run out of stories?

Run out? They’re backed up in my head like subway riders at rush hour turnstiles. They come and go like the flashes of light in the tunnels. They give me sidelong, seductive glances and then are gone at the next stop, or the one after, without looking back. Dozens, dare I say hundreds, every day.

So tell me one.

That’s just it. I want to tell you all of them. What would just one mean? How can I pick? Would it be the right one?

The right one?

The one you need to hear.

The boy laughed, a bright chattering bell above the trundle of the subway train. What if I want to hear all of them?

Well. How far are you going, my friend?

I’m going to the end of the line.

Unfortunately the next stop might be mine, or the one after.

Then you better get started.

Do you want one with a moral, or do you just want to be entertained?

How about one with a superhero?

Ah, a little of both. Alright then. Once there was a small boy with unruly blond hair and green eyes. A green that you don’t see very often — never, in fact. Aventurine.

His name was Sebastian.

One day his father accompanied him on a class trip. There they were on the 4 train, Sebastian, his father, his teacher, and the entire first grade class at St. Athanasius School. Across the aisle, leaning against the door reading, Sebastian saw a young man, perhaps a college student, scruffy and unkempt. Sebastian couldn’t take his eyes off this stranger, and why do you think?

His eyes were the same shade as Sebastian’s. Aventurine. The sort of green you never see. The sort of green Sebastian had been searching peoples’ eyes for since he first realized exactly how uncommon they were.

Are you finding this one interesting so far?

I don’t know yet. Just tell it.

It all started when the doors opened at 14th Street…

.

©2014 Jason Anderson

New world

A world exists in a subway car

And from hemisphere to hemisphere

Tourists stare

At picture postcards of cities

They’ve never known

Unguarded, uninvasive

Behind borders

They will never cross

Down foreign streets

Where they never go

.

By Jason Anderson

Late February, Bryant Park

The Zamboni is on the ice

And I think of how much like my writing

Is that glass surface

Through a milky cloud obfuscating

A depth of urgent meaning

In unripe spring

And I want the laughing children

To come out quickly

And skate once more before the thaw

.

By Jason Anderson

The beat and the blood

4 train at Grand Central 42nd Street

I

In the hazy beginnings

And endings

Of days

Run,

Blood in these veins

Driven by beat

Mechanical

And beat divine

Subway wall

And station hall

Prophets change

Salvation

To bread

Their words run

Through me

As the drums

Pump youth

Through tunnels

Dying to be young

Steaming

Steel

Souls and bodies

Minds and wits

And dancing feet

Slipping on tile

Spilling hot and red

To the surface

To sacrifice their heat

To wintry breath

Through the veins

I run

The blood

Through hazy beginnings

And neon endings

Of days

To the place

Where the prophets

Fall silent

And all is flesh

And madness

And time’s jealous eye

And the beat

And the bodies

And the youth

Run steaming

Through gutters

Stopped up with

New-fallen snow

Cigarette butts

Nips and buds

And dancing feet

From the moon

They come

These feet to run

In these veins

And spill in

These streets

Driven, dying

By this beat

Through brilliant frozen

Midnights

Of surrection

Oblivious

To the neon beginnings

And endings

Of days

.

By Jason Anderson