Wednesday, July 13, 2005

Tunnel Vision

I am of two minds about posting this poem.  I rather like it, of course, since I think I’m such a freaking genius and everything - but recent events have led me to think of it in new ways: the purgatory of the tunnels, the dove and all it symbolizes.... my conclusion, as you can see, is to let the damn thing fly.  I’ve concluded that it means something positive, though exactly what that is, I’m not yet sure.  I may be wrong.  Regardless, here it is.

Food’s not allowed
down in the tunnels -
keep the rats hungry
and the seat cushions clean.
We pass through the tunnels
like so many rivers,
insensate of each others’ goals
in cold pursuit each of our own.
The lighting and the air, unearthly:
feeble pentagrams of shadow;
concrete benches, stained with waiting
for the rubber-wheeled trains
that charge below on suicide rails,
delivering bipedal cargo
through sunless tunnels of starvation
(food is forbidden in the tunnels)
till we disgorge ourselves, and take
the escalators up and out -
emerging from deep underground
into a labyrinth made of turnstiles,
only then to find fresh air.

So: I’m standing in the tunnels,
watching trains burst forth from wormholes
barely wide enough to hold them -
roaring light and hemorrhaging
the gales of stale tunnel air -
and as I wait, and watch the time pass
till the train I need arrives
to spirit me to destinations
I no longer have in mind,
I cannot help but see - that pigeon:

flying frantic buried circuits
back and forth between the tubes
the pale greyness of her wings
a travesty of flightful freedom.
Back and forth I see her searching
for a glimpse of nature’s realm;
the trains eject her from the caves
to which her frightened flying sends her
searching for the way outside -
sent again among the landings
by a speeding wall of metal.
Just another soulless pigeon
desperate for the great escape,
or even just a scrap of crust -
some sustenence to keep her going
in her panicked quest for daylight.

Since food’s forbidden in the tunnels,
I can’t see how she survives:
but that’s a question I can leave
behind me as I board my train -
my exit strategy in motion;
flapping wings a faint applause
behind me as the doors slide shut. 
I leave her in the tunnel
flying in her sunken dungeon,
with a prayer she finds daylight:
that somehow she exceeds the ceilings
that have trapped her underground.
Though food’s forbidden in the tunnels
I leave behind a little hope
that hope might take a meager meal.

i’ve read a lot of things written about MUNI but this one takes the cake, although cake wouldn’t be allowed down there either.  there are birds trapped underground one level down from you in the BART system as well that i’ve thought the same thing about.  i wonder if there’s a way between the two levels and that we’re watching the same pigeon?

thanks, dude - cake gratefully accepted.  this actually was a BART pigeon, at the Montgomery station.  Really seemed freaked out, too.

I hate all people that can write good poetry.  So, then, I hate you.

Also, all poetry should include the word disgorge.

The imagery, as always, is superb ... thanks for sharing.